


Me, Liquor & God

by Annie Christ (SmokedSalmon)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Art History, Art School, Eventual Sex, Excessive Drinking, Funeral Home, M/M, Murder, Mythology References, Philosophy, Recreational Drug Use, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokedSalmon/pseuds/Annie%20Christ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris convinces Hawke to kill for love, but like, while in college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently rereading The Secret History. I also can't stop listening to the song Me, Liquor and God, which is why this fic is happening. All of the chapters are going to be short and sporadically updated. Gollier in the Cake Hole is my big looming project at the moment, but this should be fun.
> 
> A small disclaimer, and something to keep in mind while reading this, would be that these characters are humorously heavy-handed, and they're essentially a parody of themselves. Whenever the dialogue gets elevated it's important to know that -- well, I'm legit making fun of these kids myself. 
> 
> Please don't take me seriously with this.

I’m not naïve enough to believe in the moral absolutism of love. Though not so concisely put, this was my general sentiment while standing on Danarius’ wrap around porch, watching snow drift downward like an indefinitely tilted saltshaker. Danarius had been dead for less than an hour, lying static in his backyard, and Fenris hadn’t left his side since implementing the first blow. In three hours, Danarius’ corpse would be obscured by flurries. The help wouldn’t find him for days. North Carolina had never seen a winter quite like this one; roads blocked by oppressive snowdrifts, Kirkwall University indefinitely closed, pipes frozen and busting one-by-one, the heavy dissonance of spring’s latent arrival.  

There are some fragments of life larger than others. In the same way a mirror doesn’t break into evenly scattered shards, this moment takes precedence in my life. The sight of Fenris kneeled down with his hands tangled in his white hair while breathing in whatever was left of Danarius’ soul follows me down sidewalks, haunts me when I reach for a carton of milk, pesters me at every red light. Interminable segments of day-to-day life no longer purely stuck on autopilot are packaged in the paper of this isolated moment. But how couldn’t they be? Not many people murder someone in their lifetime, let alone before twenty-five years old.

_“There’s no other way.”_

_“He’ll always find me.”_

_“He saw everything.”_

This wasn’t how we planned to kill Danarius. The plan had been practiced, too concise to a fault. Anders would supply us with strychnine, and after pouring the bitter powder into his wine; Fenris would offer to get on his knees as distraction. It was a very Greco-Roman farewell to someone who stood like the pantheon over Fenris’ life, and it was _almost_ romantic. These ideations of death and sovereignty didn’t anticipate Fenris losing himself to his resentment, nor did they suggest the potential shouting match and reach for a Tiffany lamp. We were too green to believe things would workout in any other way than what we’d rehearsed.

The aforementioned moral absolutism was never between Danarius and Fenris, though. This isn’t my apology for someone who rightfully deserved to die. It’s how, before we decided to become winter children, a single runaway from a veritable Pencey Prep convinced me that hands were better dirtied. Life isn’t about lying softly into the mold the universe presents us with, but it’s the hunt for the autonomy none of us are truly born with.

Before this, love stories were too picturesque, entirely lacking the fear of human nature's sublimeness. Before us, the delicate anecdotes spun by people with no concept of love had reamed my expectations. You can never understand love's violence until you're capable of feeling the disparity for another person, and Fenris taught me despair. Somewhere between the chocolate mint milkshakes, funeral home parlors and stacks of Mapplethorpe prints we created a Greek tragedy, but I can't pinpoint a profound moment that sums the entirety of this era up. Instead, I give you this story.

It's the only story I have to tell anymore. 


	2. Chapter 2

Summer was at its most terminal the morning Fenris appeared in Senior Seminar.

Stained, white papers cups clenched between the shaking palms of seasoned students meandered along Kirkwall University’s cobblestone sidewalks, recyclable ghosts drifting from full-bodied vacations and humid afternoons spent seated, half-naked, in front of oscillating fans. Between Junior Year's spring semester and Senior Year’s fall, I’d acquired an appreciation for the finer things; wake and bakes, the sight of Isabela’s gold-glittered skin reflecting off clear blue saltwater, and the boundless continuation of night when one slept until sunset after spending the evening before watching the sunrise from a rooftop, trying to sober up for the drive home.

It was the first day of class, a tangible moment, but there I stood in black cutoff shorts, still reeking of Varric’s bong and choking on the belief I was in the midst of a visceral nightmare. The trees hummed overhead, trembling in the wake of a rare breeze. Where my bag sat on my lower back a damp spot had started to grow like blooming mold, and I shifted uncomfortably with a repressed grunt. It was my final first day of undergraduate. Something told me to dig for nostalgia, archaic misconceptions about savoring life in tow, but I simply stood there chewing Big Red with a cup of black coffee in hand, waiting for the right moment to walk through the Visual Arts department’s glass double doors.

With ten minutes to go, I submitted to the heat and entered. Home was the stuffy lecture hall to my direct left, and having been a part of the department long enough to believe I possessed authority; I made a beeline for the thermostat. Behind me loomed floor to ceiling prints of Flemish art, the dark chocolate blacks and tortured maroons no longer intimidating but a comfortable part of my routine. The prints had been installed with the _Salon de Paris_ in mind, creating a grid of crowded work where the overripe fruit, gleaming like gems, rotted beside bronze vases of blushing flowers, open and dewy.

I set the temperature to seventy degrees and turned in time with the vent’s angry metallic clank only to see I hadn’t been alone. The pause that followed wasn’t warranted, but in hindsight, maybe that shock to my system had been an overlooked premonition. Seated stage right was a tired looking man, my age, unflinchingly watching me with eyes so large and full of absinthe they distracted from the fact he had hoary hair beneath a thin black beanie. He was in the middle of sipping iced coffee through a green straw, and when I didn’t say anything, he raised a distinctly dark eyebrow. It was an invitation to introduce myself, but my tongue was stunned.

He cleared his throat.

That Adam’s apple rolled with the grace of a serpent, and it was then the pale tattoos, two forked lines on his chin, caught my attention. They ran down his neck and plumed like growing insect legs along his throat. The lines then disappeared beneath the neckline of his black V-neck and reappeared on his lean biceps like ancient inscription. He knew very well what I was staring at and preceded to lean back appraisingly, exposing more of himself and taking in more of me.

He tapped a pencil against the edge of his desk.

“Are you a freshman?” I asked, dropping my bag beside a chair upfront.

“Hardly,” he said, his accent distinctly Scandinavian.  

“This is Senior Seminar.”

“I’m aware.”

I’d spent the duration of the last three years in the art building, learning every name and face while camping out in the painting studios. If someone like him had done any time in the building, I would’ve known. The semester before I’d endured five days straight without leaving, sustaining off lead paint and Maruchan. Professors and students alike had visited me in my department-assigned upperclassman studio, and those who didn’t stop to say ‘hello’ paused outside to peer at my incomplete work. By the time finals had clinched, I’d become acquainted with the conclusive handful of current upperclassmen originally thrown to the wayside my freshman and sophomore year.

“What’s your major?”

He leaned to the side, bangs swaying as he stared past my head. The handle behind me jerked downward, but he still humored the question. “Painting.”

“What do you paint?”

“It’s hotter than Jesus’ flaming asshole outside,” crooned a familiar voice as the door finally lurched open. 

I wilted. “You’ve always known how to make an introduction, Varric.”

Varric, a Sculpture major with a Woodworking Concentration, appeared beside me in a sweaty green tank top. He realized I’d been in the middle of talking to someone and silently mouthed ‘ _oh_ ’ only to chuckle. He turned to me, waiting for me to introduce him with an expectant stare, and I looked back toward the fellow painter whose name I’d neglected to ask for. Of course I’d ask for someone’s major before his actual name. Undergraduate World had conditioned me to forget people had identities beyond the university’s perimeter. Majors were how I judged people, decided whether or not I wanted to associate with them long term.

“Varric, this is…”

The nameless man darted his gaze between us, but he rested his stare on me. “Fenris.”

“And you said _I_ was bad at introductions.” Varric nudged me before taking a seat next to where I’d dropped my bag. He pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke. “His name’s Garrett Hawke, by the way. Took me three weeks before I figured that one out.”

Fenris leaned over the steno pad in front of him and jotted down a note, evidently bored. He settled his cheek in a propped up palm, thought and then continued vigorously scrawling. Clearly my name wasn’t that interesting to him, and I tried not to be insulted. Behind him loomed the life-size print of Caravaggio’s _Judith Beheading Holofernes_ , and the chiaroscuro curtained his backdrop, morphing his light hair into a halo.

“Are you going to sit down?” Varric asked. “You’re making me anxious.”

I tore my gaze away from Fenris and took a seat. As soon as I did, the hairs on the back of my neck lifted, and I reached to rub them with sweaty fingers.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask -- Yes. I'm one of those derelict Art History majors.

There were seven of us, not including the Art History majors who were the department derelicts. We sat postured in the dim lecture hall with pencils in hand, phones at the ready and stares of critical disinterest inspired by the fact none of us wanted to work together. That was the theme of Senior Seminar, though. Putting together a gallery show with a singular motif on top of producing our personal series. The concept was torture, unnecessary to most, and I tilted my head back and groaned when the syllabus smacked against my desk. The header, in boldface Times New Roman, contained the condescending words _group_ and _project_.

“Isn’t this sort of juvenile?” Anders asked, and he smacked the front of the packet. “Artistically and politically speaking, there’s nothing cohesive about us.”

Varric brought his arms behind his head and grinned. “Three painters, two photographers, and a sculptor walked into a bar.”

He didn’t wait for the punch line. “This is going to turn into academic resignation.”

“You’re not _that_ bad at playing with others,” I said in an attempt to keep the entire room from being insulted. “Now let the woman speak before she eats you.”

Anders was the resident Thomas Eakins, a painter of the enlightened macabre with an artist’s statement as long as _The Communist Manifesto_. He wore Ralph Lauren’s Black Label, compliments of his Harvard Medical School alumnus father, and hated maraschino cherries in his Manhattans. We’d roomed together my freshman year and endured a sequence of homoerotic experiences that eventually led to an awkward fallout. Animosities aside, Anders was what the art world referred to as _genius_. Though, the fickle definition of genius should be taken into account here. With genius comes a threadbare veil, an overlooked coping mechanism diseased by an unrested brain, and his brain never shut up.

“Every portion of your time throughout the next year must be utilized critically,” Flemeth started, pacing in front of the classroom with her hands clasped behind her back. “Otherwise, you will walk across the stage with nothing but a Liberal Arts degree and a blank document for a recommendation letter. Some of you, I realize, are depending on that letter for your MFA applications. Some of you will never get in without it. One could even say that, this year, I am the closest thing to the Hand of God you will ever meet.”

“I’ve never been too good on my knees,” Varric started. “Got a bad case of rheumatoid arthritis.”

Isabela, one of the two photographers, raised an eyebrow. “Most of us here are, though.”

“Isabela knows how to pray,” I promised, and she draped her arm over my shoulders. “Fervently with pleading inflection and unsavory swear words.”

“Jesus Christ,” Anders murmured.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I corrected.

Isabela laughed, but Flemeth’s look of disinterest made her stop.

Little to nothing was known about Flemeth prefacing her painting career, but that was a part of her charm. Enigmatic with her splintered bourbon voice and proclivity for black clothing, rumor had it she’d once claimed residency in a Tennessee hippie commune where she produced three of her six daughters, eventually becoming the wife of a New York City corporate lawyer who she then divorced and promptly cleaned out. At some point following the divorce, she started showing paintings in Paris and Florence where she was herald a modern master, someone entirely comprised of primordial expertise, even a regular Lavinia Fontana.

Flemeth continued, “And to soothe your apprehension, Anders, it should be noted that I hand selected each and every one of you. You’re esteemed and capable because I said so, which leads me to the seventh of your unlucky six.”

The desks creaked and groaned as we shifted toward Fenris. We became a sudden audience, appraising and waiting for him to introduce himself. But Flemeth finished introducing him for us, as if she’d expected him to do anything but speak.

“I’d like you all to meet Fenris Sandvik. He’s here from the Royal Swedish Academy of Arts. Again, handpicked by me like the rest of you.” Flemeth admired him for a moment before suddenly laughing, the sound smokey and tired. “He’s a renegade from Stockholm. Some of you wouldn’t hurt to take inspiration from his discipline. While the rest of you were trouncing every ounce of progress made last semester with cheap liquor and even cheaper weed, he was here from dawn until dusk.”

Flemeth strode toward the bag she’d dropped onto the front podium and from it she produced a black metal box. All of us shifted forward in our seats, knowing full well what was inside. They were the keys to the four senior studios located in the building’s top floor. The space was entirely closed off from the rest of the Studio Arts students and unnecessary for faculty to enter. It was no mystery the Studio Arts track was created so that eighty percent of our classes were located only in the art building come senior year. While most seniors moved off campus, we committed to student housing solely so that we never had to leave the premises. Most of the studios eventually took on a futon, and the dorm rooms themselves collected dust.

“Garrett Hawke,” she started and tossed me the first key. I caught it with a single hand and swung it around my index finger. “Go settle into Studio One. Set up begins tonight and then we’ll convene tomorrow for a discussion about unified visions. I’ve done this long enough to know none of you are going to come back downstairs once these keys are in your possession.” Flemeth tugged out the second Studio One key, and I expectantly looked to Varric who postured with his own awaiting look.

“We’re going to have a discussion about your dust,” I began.

“Fenris Sandvik,” Flemeth interrupted any potential response from Varric.

Varric’s and my mouth opened in instant betrayal.

Flemeth ignored us both and tossed the key in the direction of Fenris who lithely caught the damning piece of metal. He inspected the key and its string attached tag, running his eyes over Flemeth’s age-worn cursive with an unaffected blink.

“Consider it an _au revoir_ to your comfort zone.”

Fenris reached for his bag and stuffed his notepad into the black sack before he stood. He swung it over his shoulder and walked toward the door only to pass me with an assessing glance over. I took it as my cue to also leave and grabbed for my backpack and unfinished cup of coffee. He walked ahead of me, down the dark main hallway toward the elevator, and I quietly gauged his tall and willowy frame currently maintained in a pair of black leather leggings. Fenris struck me as a Ford model; willowy and tall with sunken cheekbones and full lips that were perpetually wet.

He stopped outside of the elevator, and I reached to push the button.

“What do you do?” Fenris asked.  

“I’m a painter.”

“What do you paint?”

The elevator dinged, and we both stepped inside.

I paused then smiled as the doors slid closed in front of us. “I asked first.”

Fenris considered this. He turned and pressed his back against the elevator’s railing and reached for the Fourth Floor button. “I grew up preferring Flemish Baroque painters. It’s what I try to emulate.”

“That’s classic of you.”

“Nothing is classic once you insert your modern self.” His accent and low tenor made me grip the strap of my bag. There was eye contact and then there was attempting to read the writing on the inside of another’s skull. Fenris was drinking me in, soaking the concept of me on his tongue and deciding whether or not I was worth his time. “I’m taking a paradigm of the old, proper ways and instating progression through my voice. The past is for reflection, not perpetuation. Emulation in art is not the same as reproduction.”

“A fancy way of implying nothing’s entirely original anymore.”

“If that’s how you’d like to simplify it, then yes.” He gazed at me, waiting. “Your turn.”

“I focus on Magic Realism.”

“Magic Realism or _Surrealism_?”

“They’re not interchangeable,” I said, cautiously considering every word that followed. “But when you do one you find yourself crossing back and forth between the two. Magic Realism is what I put on my artist’s statement. I care more about making the everyday fantastical than the ascribing to formal Surrealism.”

“I see you’re not very good at formalities.”

“It’s hardly a matter of capacity.” For some reason, his observation made me smile. “It’s a conscious choice.”

The doors slid open and revealed a white-walled lobby where a cluster of green barrel chairs encircled a square coffee table. A pair of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked campus bled in an appropriate amount of light that lit up the long hallway directly across from us. The hallway held four uniquely tall studio doors, labelled with their appropriate numbers, and at the very end of the hallway a full kitchen, bathroom and dining space gave the illusion of an apartment. The space smelled of lemon bleach cleaners and fresh paint from its recent update.

“Home sweet home.”

Fenris approached one of the grand windows and gazed down at the busy sidewalks. He then wordlessly walked toward Studio One’s door and thrust his key into the ornate golden knob. Anticipation got the better of me as he turned the lock with a clunk and pushed open the door. I immediately strode into the grand space with its chrome double sinks and curtain-divided roosts that sat empty like canvases, lined only with storage shelves and individual desks. Fenris wordlessly claimed the left side of the room, and I took the right, unbothered either way.

“I’ve seen modester studios,” Fenris noted. He opened a supplies closet and then promptly shut it.

I did the same. “Glad you approve.”

“Approve enough, anyway.”

Fenris reappeared in the small foyer of the space and dropped his bag onto the floor. Isabela and Varric’s voices then arrived in the lobby and filtered into our studio. I popped my head out and greeted them with a raised eyebrow and undisguisable glint of excitement. We’d waited three years to take our place on the top floor, and Flemeth had cruelly weeded out some of our closest friends in the process, but that was no longer consequential. We’d gained our places as fairly as one could in an infamously skewed undergraduate program.

A hand smoothed across my bicep, and I looked over as Fenris muttered a quick ‘excuse me’ and made way down the hallway toward the kitchen. Varric watched me as I watched him, but I didn’t realize this until he cleared his throat. Pausing to quickly defend myself, he raised a hand with a _tsk_. Isabela playfully shoved past him to enter Studio Two, but she waggled her eyebrows to punctuate on Varric’s unspoken accusation.

“I say we start counting our sober nights,” Isabela said, projecting so all three of us could hear. “Fenris, do you drink?”

Fenris suddenly stepped back, reappearing in the kitchen doorway with an unimpressed gaze. “I’m a painter.”

“Loving those perpetuated stereotypes.” Varric chuckled and grabbed my shoulder to squeeze it. “I think he’ll fit right in. Don’t you, Hawke?”

“We have such shallow criteria.”   

“Hardly,” he contested and followed after Isabela. “We’re too particular of a bunch to be  _that_ shallow.”


	4. Chapter 4

The initial allure of a person rarely stems from getting to know what’s beneath the scalp. It’s the intimate details. The innate longing to drag fingertips down the traipsing curves where the jawline meets one’s throat or press your nose into a crop of silkworm hair. It’s watching someone thoughtfully reach to touch his chin with a single finger, wondering if that hesitant stop was intentional or subconscious. Small, rudimentary motions we take for granted become, not the foundation, but the monument. Angkor becomes a diminutive part of human history, and the glistening spider thread that connects another’s top and bottom lips induces existentialism. These moments bring clarity to someone’s identity, and though my paintings said otherwise, I was always vying for certainty, purpose, explanation. I craved resolution where there never could be one.

Fenris didn’t have many things, something I acknowledged as the result of a small stipend and having only just flown to the United States with two hulking pieces of luggage and a small carry-on for his computer. He kept a polite book collection on his person at all times, smoked like a freight train – on occasion found half-leaned out the nearest window with a scratching lighter – and he seemed perpetually bored. These were easy details to gather, accessible for the masses, but being in close proximity garnered me a private exhibition of intimate habits. Such as, the way he shifted his weight back and forth, protruding a hip, when engaged in a conversation he didn’t want to have on the phone or the way he dragged the pad of his thumb along his canines when discerning whether or not his Mapplethorpe prints were off kilter that morning.

Sharing a space wasn’t convenient, but Fenris was hardly a nightmarish space-mate.

“That couch is hideous.”

He just told me exactly what he thought, _always_.

I realized this the day we moved in. I’d been minding my own business, enjoying the process of setting up easels and digging out knick-knacks from boxes, when he appeared in my doorway. Shoulder pressed against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, Fenris had stared at my German tapestry of a dragon for a moment too long before raising an eyebrow.

“Is that hung ironically?”

“No,” I said and bristled. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

Fenris parted his lips, glanced at it, looked back at me and then walked away.

His judgment was something one either drowned in or placidly accepted, especially since it wasn’t as if he could do anything about what happened on my side of the studio. My mustard couch _was_ hideous, though. That and it smelled decidedly of mothballs and the kind of dust that, when sniffed hard enough, coated the back of your throat. I’d found it in Varric’s family garage, decided it was impressively squishy and had Varric help me haul it into the elevator under the disillusion that it wouldn’t get the elevator stuck. The elevator didn’t get stuck, but the doors went haywire and nearly cut off Varric’s hand. Fenris had watched, amused, from the other end of the hallway as Varric screamed and I screamed for him while prying open the doors.

“I love this couch,” I said, sprawled out on it, looking at Fenris in mid-pose. “I’m going to make my first baby on this couch. I might name it Life Giver.”

“And an ugly baby it will be.”

“Those are fighting words.”

Fenris walked away.

“Just don’t make the baby while I’m around.”

His accent was thick, and sometimes, when he wasn’t trying as hard to enunciate his English, I could barely understand him. He didn’t say much, forcing me to savor every sentence that poured off his tongue, usually heated by either disapproval or apparent disgust. Fenris was one-toned with me, but he was that way with everyone on the Fourth Floor. He immediately proved to be antisocial, even when we drank together in the kitchen. He was quiet, contributed little to the conversation, and when he did it was so sharp and sudden it cut like a knife, only to eventually make either Varric or me laugh. _Dry_ was the word. Fenris was _dry_.

“Hawke, Fenris,” Isabela called as she appeared in Studio One’s foyer. She had a beer in hand and that distinct glimmer in her eyes. She was up to something. “I have a proposal.”

“I’m not interested in losing anymore money,” I snapped. “Your _rigged_ card games.”

“Don’t be daft,” she muttered and I realized she was stepping toward Fenris’ side of the room. “Why don’t we _all_ go out tonight? Fenris hasn’t been to The Hanged Man yet. I think he’d like it.”

“Your reason being?” Fenris asked.

“We’ve never seen you out of this building is all.” Isabela paused. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Now you’re bribing me.” He also paused and I sensed the stare off. “Is _this_ how you make friends?”

“Don’t you want to go out? Let loose?” She sighed. “Imagine, Fenris. All of us, mainly you and me, on the dance floor, sweaty and grinding against one another after three pineapple vodkas. Your hand touches my naked hip and before long the two of us are – ”

“Is this a reverse psychology tactic? Because you’re trying to convince me, but I’m wanting to go less and less.”

I rolled off the couch when I realized they weren’t bringing the conversation to me and strode to Isabela’s side. Fenris was leaned over his desk, pencil in hand, violently sketching on a pad of paper wider than the span of both Isabela’s and my hips. None of us had started putting paint to canvas yet, and Flemeth had made a point to oversee all of our preliminary study work. Had we even touched a brush, then someone might’ve lost a finger. Her methods sometimes felt stifling, but they were fruitful, almost annoyingly so.

“Why don’t you come with us, Fenris?” I asked.

Fenris paused, stared at what he’d been sketching and then carefully set down his pencil. “I have the right to leave whenever I want.”

Isabela and I exchanged glances, and I answered, “Of course you do.”

The Hanged Man was a regular hole-in-the-wall dive bar entirely economized by the minimum wage paychecks of college students. The interior was the mental image associated with the word _shanty_ ; low-lighting offset by white Christmas lights strung over a collection of kitschy items. Half the battle of the bar was tearing your eyes away from the vintage Playboy spreads, Halloween masks and the collages of Polaroid pictures that covered the place like wallpaper. Not a picture exhibited signs of attractive intoxication, and they were the best part of the establishment. Isabela had proudly placed my own picture on a beam above the bar. Drunk with my tongue hanging out while double fisting shots of tequila, I overlooked the Hanged Man every night.

“Varric,” I started as we all climbed into the back of his yellow Chevy. “Your car smells like a fifth grader’s sense of humor.”

He deep breathed and wafted the air toward his nose like fine wine. “I think she smells _nice_.”

“Bianca needs a shampooing,” Isabela said, casually kicking at the three-week-old Starbucks cup I vividly remembered Varric tossing into the backseat. I was supposed to remind him to grab it before we got out. “Maybe a full body shave and six week quarantine just to play it safe.”

“Don’t be like that.” Varric petted his steering wheel. “She can hear you.”

Fenris was squished against the door, already regretting his decision to come with us. I leaned away from him to give him more room, and he straightened his back before reaching up to fix the beanie that never left his head. He’d taken it off around me once, solely to ruffle his hair back into place, and replaced it with a grey one that was better suited for his outfit. Fenris’ style was impeccable, but casually so. His color was black, always and forever, yet he reveled in the finer details. Currently, he was in a black tank top, but he was wearing a vertebrae necklace and a pair of boots that looked so unintentional it had to be meticulously thought out.

“How far away is this place?” Fenris asked.

“Five minutes,” Isabela said. "It's a bar, Fenris. Not a wake."

The bar was busy when we arrived, but it was almost midnight and the prime time for any bar in the area. A remixed version of Marvin Gaye’s _Sexual Healing_ greeted us when we stepped out of Bianca, and Isabela was already mouthing the words at me as she walked backwards in front of us. The Hanged Man looked as if it belonged to a biker gang on the outside, but the crowd demanded otherwise. Hence, the strange yet entirely innocuous music selection. A single night could endure Hispanic hits, the latest pop anthems and then songs like the one Isabela was pantomiming to. It was a part of its urinal charm.

“And she hasn’t even started drinking,” I said, specifically to Fenris.

He was unreadable until we stepped through the beaded doorway, greeted by even louder music and crowds of murmuring college kids attempting to pretend summer vacation wasn't over.

“Do you come here a lot?” Fenris spoke loudly, competing with the music. His eyes dragged along every inch of the place, and I knew exactly what he was feeling.

“Way more than I should.”

I ushered him to the bar, and it didn’t surprise me that Isabela and Varric alike had disappeared to find their own drinks. Knowing Isabela, she would never buy Fenris’ booze, and I pointedly bought his to fulfill the bargain. Fenris drank cranberry and vodka, not pineapple, and we somehow ended up at a back table, lighters and packs of cigarettes between us while I sipped through what would be one of many PBRs.

“How do you know Flemeth?” I asked.

“I don’t,” he said simply. “She saw me drawing in a train station when I was on my way to Amsterdam.”

“That’s _it_?”

He nodded and took a long drag.

“She called me a renegade. Did you not hear her?”

“An artistic renegade,” I clarified. “I thought it was a metaphor for you going up and beyond the comfort zone of most artists. We have plenty of exchange students in Kirkwall.”

“A metaphor,” he repeated, disappointed in my response.

I rushed to redeem myself. “But why Amsterdam?”

“Why anywhere, Hawke?”

Fenris took another cigarette from his pack and pointedly lit it with the cherry still hanging from the corner of his mouth. He then lit me another and didn’t break eye contact the entire time. His mannerisms were cranked to level ten. Everything he did was controlled, but like his fashion, had an air of effortlessness that was impossible. It was impossible because perfection wasn’t real. People weren’t rehearsed, but Fenris was. Even his looks were practiced, striving for unforgettable jounces that forced me to acknowledge he was heart-stirring.

“You talk in riddles.” I flicked ash from my second cigarette. “Aside from painting, what do you like to do? There has to be more to you.”

“Why does there _have_ to be?” he asked. I realized that was rhetorical. “I like to do what we’re doing right now. Don’t let the accent and sharp cheekbones fool you, Garrett. I’m not high maintenance. I just have good taste.” He noticed I didn’t appear convinced. “Do you want me to say something else?”

“You like Flemish baroque art and wear animal bones around your neck.”

He paused, uncertain. “Yes _._ ”

“You’re morbid, and you’re _strange_.”

“How does that make me _strange_?”

“How do I phrase this?” I leaned back and took another sip from my can. “What if I asked you to go to a funeral home with me. Say, by some strange happenstance, I find a way for us to visit a few dead bodies for an hour. Would you be willing to go with me?”

Fenris stared at my beer.

“Are those drinks legal in the United States?”

“Answer the question.”

He blinked at me, but I knew he was mulling. “I’d probably go.”

I sighed, exhaled from the deepest pits of my upper-torso. “And there we go.”

“Do you _like_ corpses?” He asked.

“Not in the freaky kind of way, but I might be morbidly fascinated.”

“Imagine if you told this to the wrong person.”

“But I didn’t.”

Fenris vaguely smiled at me, a soft quirk to the corner of his mouth.

I continued. “Seriously, though. I know how to get into a funeral home.”

He glossed his fingertips over the edge of the table.

“Buy me another drink, and I’ll consider it.”

Another drink turned into three more, and with each plastic cup of iced vodka, I noticed how much Fenris could talk. He spoke of things I had no idea how to comprehend or respond to. I didn’t know about Sweden'’s government, nor did I have an inkling of an idea about legalized sex trades or the Venetian glass industry, but Fenris knew everything about all three topics. His voice was soft with tinges of anger, and my favorite parts of the conversation were when he accidentally drifted off into a Swedish thrum.

“Think about it, Hawke.”

We’d gone from sitting at the table to walking down a poorly lit sidewalk. Fenris was holding his final drink of the night, number five, and I was somewhere up there with him, but in an equivalence of beer.

“Isn’t what grips someone in the lesser details?” He asked, walking backward in front of me as Isabela had earlier that night. “When you see someone it’s not the whole of him that threatens you, but the crick in his fingers, how dark his eyes are beneath an incandescent glow, the way he sees through you as if he’s there and not a part of the canvas. Art’s that feeling, isn’t it? That grip. It’s the grip right here.” Fenris reached up and caught the base of his throat. “You stop breathing for a second and suddenly question _this_.”

I watched him gesture between us before replying. “I suppose it is.”

Frustrated, Fenris turned his back to me and walked ahead.

“What’d I say?” I asked, too drunk to be offended.

 “It’s what you _don’t_ have to say.”

A church appeared in the distance, glowing over Kirkwall like a sanctimonious asshole. In all its Catholic glory, Fenris strode toward it, but not in the manner of stomping off. He remained at my pace, even though he focused his gaze on the oncoming grand staircase that led toward two very foreboding wooden doors. They stood like watchful titans, the actual eyes of God upon two men who didn’t know one another, drunkenly floundering back to their campus.

Fenris didn’t seem to care, and he took a seat on a low step. The overhead streetlight cast shadows in places that made him otherworldly.

“It’s like this everywhere,” he murmured.

“Like what?” I asked, enjoying the drunken banter even though he was clearly experiencing a pragmatic sense of self in reflection of his artwork.

“I’m always talking to walls.”

That finally struck a nerve. “I am _very_ drunk.”

Fenris halted his thoughts, panic evident in his stare.

“I’m about to puke in front of the House of God.”

“What?” I asked, but not fast enough to get a response.

Fenris leaned over, and with a tight heave, puked beneath the eyes of disappointed angels.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of bad funeral home humor in this chapter. You've been warned, but I laughed writing it the entire time because I'm a disgusting person.

It's only fair to ask if I suspected something sinister about him from the beginning.

He roamed campus like a murder of crows, shoulders spiked and tongue perpetually clenched between molars. Unruly, yet composed. There was something distinctly feral about his presence from the moment he cut me a look in the lecture hall. It was in the picked to scabs cuticles and the way he rolled his jaw when someone said something he didn't like. Fenris presented himself as a teetering jar of paint on the edge of a desk, perilous and able to combust into glass shards and muddy stains with one unguided hand. The internal monologue was strong in his features, but getting him to divulge a thought was like breaking bone. He was pointed, always.

But to call him sinister? Moody was a better word.

And maybe that's what makes people sinister. Fear is a nuance. Everything is more frightening in hindsight, because it becomes a series of grievances that  _could've_  been, an unwanted awareness that forms an initially undeterminable picture, like a constellation. One wrong misstep could've been the trap throughout what tends to feel like an unconscious path, and nothing with Fenris was precedent. He was Musca, Andromeda, Ursa Major (never Minor), and Vulpecula. He was milky starlight, already dead and gone, aged into a manifestation that was illusionary.

So, I suppose the answer is  _no_. I never suspected a thing.

Fenris and I didn't mention him vomiting, and maybe he'd forgotten, but it didn't make much difference either way. He wandered the studio the same way he always had, forgetting moldy coffee cups in the foyer and stepping in paint. Fenris was a creature of unorthodox habit.

"You're leaving behind tracks again," I muttered, clenching a cup of coffee between my palms and blearily staring at the bright red footprint. It looked morbid.

"I'll clean it later."

I stared down the blue one nearby. "You won't."

Fenris ignored me.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

He stopped pushing aside cleaned paintbrushes to make room for his sketchpad. "I ate lunch thirty minutes ago."

"Are you doing anything this afternoon?"

He looked at his sketchpad, uneasy. "I planned on working."

"Aside from that," I said and reached out for a handful of rolling paintbrushes before they clattered to the ground. Fenris quickly took them from my hand. His nails scraped against my open palm, and I couldn't have predicted the goose bumps that followed. "I can get us into the funeral home after four. No one in this town has a funeral after four. It's considered unsophisticated."

Fenris' lip twitched in a disallowed smile. He flipped his sketchbook to a clean page. "I'd forgotten you asked until now. More so, I thought I dreamt it."

"Does that mean you want to go?"

He sat down on a stool and spun himself to face me.

"It's an opportunity that'd make a good story."

Fenris' front teeth scraped across his bottom lip and he grabbed a pencil, which was my cue to leave. That tiny mannerism gnawed at my lower gut, giving my self-control loving licks as if coaxing it to be hasty. He was pretty, too pretty, but I never wanted to pursue someone with that thought in mind. Generally, I didn't pursue people (they pursued me), and instead I tried to think about Fenris' opinion on Georgia O'Keeffe. Something about perversion in petals and  _Red Poppy_ 's dark center reminding him of pubic hair. This didn't help me, and I despondently took a seat in front of my desk to pretend I was a productive artist.

We walked to the funeral home at noon.

"Are we breaking in?" Fenris asked, completely unbothered by the idea. "Or do you _actually_ have a corpse viewing connection?"

"Varric's family owns it. We've been in and out of the place since we met freshman year. At first it was for weird reasons. Like standing guard outside and handing people these obituaries on printer paper with  _awesome_  clipart and Times New Roman font. Sometimes we'd sit there and make really abstract ones on his uncle's ancient PC, but then we started to actually work. Have you ever put makeup on a corpse before? Because let me tell you, that's not an occupation you tell your teacher about on career day."

"You put makeup on corpses?" Fenris paused in the middle of lighting his cigarette. "That's your  _job_?"

"It's like a family favor kind of thing. Most of my breaks are spent with Varric's old money family, so when they ask me to do something, I've got a knack for asking  _how high_." I rubbed my nose and sniffed. "Why is it so goddamn hot? Days like these are why I'm glad funeral homes have backup generators."

"That's disgusting," he said. "What's the protocol for a refrigeration malfunction?"

"I don't know. I didn't read the handbook. I'd probably just burn the place down."

"Loot the corpses for jewelry first." Fenris licked his bottom lip and tried not to snort at his own joke. "Pay your shitty American tuition."

I rounded the corner before him and started walking backward the same way he had when drunk. Fenris motioned to the left so I wouldn't bump into a woman pushing a stroller.

"There's this house party on Greek Row I'm going to tomorrow."

Fenris reached for me so I wouldn't slam into a jogger, but I shifted to the side before he had to. He immediately went on guard once he processed what I'd said. "What about it?"

We halted in front of the black gate that led onto Tethras Memorial's property. It was a looming Victorian home remodeled as a carcass chute with powder blue siding and a grey sign that hadn't been repainted since 1978. The lawn was immaculate, the patio furniture only rusty along the legs, and I'd taken newspaper and glass cleaner to the front windows two days before. Aside from the natural wear and tear, the place looked halfway respectable.

"You should come with me so the group's self-proclaimed mother hen doesn't try to manipulate me into meeting one of her friends again. Merrill thinks I'm  _lonely_."

"Are you asking me to  _pretend_  to be your date?"

"I'm asking you to go with me to a house party." Because I was too chicken shit to just ask him, Fenris arched an eyebrow and pushed the gate open with his hip, the filter hanging from the corner of his mouth, as he looked me over, unimpressed. He was leading the way with an uninterested disposition that didn't tell me  _yes_  or  _no_. "Fenris, we have to go through the back."

He killed his cigarette in an ashtray on the porch and bounded down the steps.

"Aren't men from the states supposed to be bold and brash?"

"Do you love IKEA?"

"It can be convenient."

This was followed by an exchange of halved smiles, and we entered the back of the funeral home through a heavy metal door with an adjoining keypad, stepping directly into the small embalming room. In that moment, it seemed entirely detached from death; too cream, too sterile, too lackluster with its shelves stocked with chemicals and loved to death instruments (no pun intended). The place, on a good day, was homey to me, and I'd once sat on the floor in an parlor for hours, studying during finals. I even napped there, which took the 'art students can sleep anywhere' myth to a whole new reality.  

"I feel as if I should be more unnerved," Fenris said, walking toward the door that led into the reposing room. He turned the handle, pausing in surprise when it opened, and then quickly shut it with a quiet click. "Are there bodies here right now?"

"In the refrigerating unit."

Fenris looked at me, expectant.

"Did you want to check?"

He picked up a hairbrush that'd been used on uncountable heads and inspected it. "No. I came here for lunch."

"I heard human meat tastes like pork."

"That'd make sense considering we're no better than pigs."

" _Damn_. Spoken like a true misanthropic art student."

Fenris coughed and set down the brush. "I don't actually  _hate_  people. That's just a thing. Humans are called long pigs."

I walked across the room and wrenched open the heavy refrigerator door. It was a miniature morgue. Almost _cute_ in the way that all small things inexplicably are. "But you clearly don't like them very much."

"What makes you think that?"

"You have this obvious knack for avoiding them. Kind of gives it away."

"Do you want to know the real reason?"

Blanketed feet rested inside the cooler, presented like an offering on a platter, and I stared at them before waggling my eyebrows at Fenris. He furrowed his in return and I tugged out the drawer with a smooth glide. The ghostly silhouette then lay between us, and I reached out for one of the draped toes. Fenris groaned and looked away.

"I want to know the reason."

"Stop touching its toes."

"Her name's Martha, Fenris. Have some fucking respect."

"Then stop playing with Martha's toes!"

"I sincerely think her husband killed her. This is probably the nicest anyone's been to her in the past fifty years. Do not take this away from her."

"You don't know if she liked her feet being touched." Fenris smacked my hand away, and then he laughed. It was a real laugh and I stopped, surprised and suddenly endeared. "I can't tell you why I don't talk to people when you're fondling dead feet."

"Dead feet," I repeated, "makes it sound like feet themselves were sentient. Could you imagine?"

"I'm not going to imagine sentient feet." He then cleared his throat, and I stepped up to Martha's head to pull back the sheet. We both grew quiet and gazed down at her, the deafening sound of electricity filling the momentary silence. "It's because…"

Her mouth hadn't been sewn shut yet.

"Death is so ugly," Fenris murmured.

"It's not glamorous."

"How do you keep her face from looking like  _that_?"

"I don't embalm. You have to go to school for that, but it's this whole process where they throw you around like a rag doll and use an old whirring machine to replace your blood with chemicals. Then they massage the rigor mortis out of you and stuff your cavities, and  _yes_. They stuff all of them. It's kind of amazing how they can reconstruct anything here. I once saw a decapitation come in, and they were able to sew him up like new. But isn't that just a bitch? You die and then someone fists you before putting you on an altar for an hour that costs more than most state school tuition. It's cruel."

Fenris took a moment to swallow that. "I feel like you get fisted pretty hard in life, too."

"Not if you fist it first." I wondered how we'd gone from Fenris' big reveal to shoving a whole hand in both literal and metaphorical anuses, but I told myself weirder things had happened. The only reason I doubted that was because we were in the presence of a dead body. "Once you're in wrist deep, then you can always make it to the elbow if you try hard enough."

"Is the elbow the equivalent to success?"

"Sure. We can say that."

He hummed and leaned over her a little more. "When's her wake?"

"The day after tomorrow, probably. We just got her."

Martha then sighed.

More  _gurgled_.

Never before in my life had I seen another person jump as quickly as Fenris did. Eyes the size of saucers, he jerked back and almost tripped into the wall. Realizing he wasn't accustomed to the noises and movements corpses made, I laughed and immediately hit the ground, on one knee. I knew exactly what was going through his head, and I gingerly gripped Martha's naked shoulder for some kind of support.

"Martha, don't be indecent!" I yelled, on the brink of crying.

"Fuck no," Fenris said.

He raised both hands and bolted out of the funeral home.

"Fenris, wait!" I yelled through a laugh. "Corpses make noises! They're rotting gaseous heaps! Don't  _leave_!"

He shot something back in gnarled Swedish and the embalming room door slammed closed.

I caught him halfway down the street, almost back to the art building. He was walking with his hands raking through his hair and another, probably much needed, cigarette in his mouth. Behind him, I noted the way his hips shifted in an awkward lumbering motion, but then jogged to his side. Not sure where the level of familiarity derived from, I reached for his bicep.

He shot me a look that probably could've brought Martha back to life.

"I should've warned you. I'm sorry."

"You're trying not to laugh again."

It was true. I could feel the laughter in my throat, but I sucked my lips between my teeth and choked it back.

"But anyway, that's an embalming room."

"Now I know." He looked at me for a long moment. "Where I'm from, cremation is customary."

"Do you know what you want done?" I realized that was very personal and attempted to retract it with a quick explanation that I'd only asked because it was a habit, but he cut me off.

"I don't think about death. There are worse things in life to concentrate on."

"We're so obviously in our twenties."

"Maybe so…"

Fenris shifted away from my touch.


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm proposing a deal," Fenris said the next morning, handing me a surprise cup of coffee from the kitchen. It was six in the morning, and I hadn't moved from my couch yet. In fact, I hadn't been awake very long at all. Fenris had jarred my sleep by slamming the studio door twice in a span of ten minutes, making me temporarily resent him. "You have to listen to me."

"When  _don't_  I listen to you?" I groggily asked and propped myself up on an elbow.

He pointedly looked at me.

"I took the trash out the next day."

Fenris sat on the reject coffee table Varric had gifted me. It was ugly, but charming. Varric claimed it reminded him of me.

"If I go to that party and pretend to be your date," Fenris began, cautiously watching my expression, "then you're going to have to go to Martha's wake."

" _Fenris_ ," I groaned. I set the coffee down and covered my face with my pillow. "Fenris, why are you so sentimental? I'm going to have to put makeup on her. That's enough."

"You touched her toes without warrant."

"And she  _breathed_ on you without warrant."

"Anyway," he settled his hand on his knee and sipped his coffee, "those are my conditions."

I jerked the pillow off my face and realized he also hadn't been up long. The crusty sleep was still in the corners of his eyes, and he hadn't brushed his hair. It was reaching for God.

"You know that's tomorrow. What if we're too hung over to stay?"

"We won't be."

"Then  _what_  do you think we're doing at this party tonight?"

Fenris raised both hands and said nothing more. I reasoned vomiting in front of God's house could create apprehension, but that wasn't reason enough to abstain from drinking. I'd vomited multiple times. One time, during junior year, I'd even projectile vomited onto Varric, told him I loved him and then passed out only to wake up in a closet. The next morning, we'd stumbled into Waffle House while Isabela joked about how everyone thought I'd died. Self-control was for graduate students, and even then, those getting their MFAs needed a coping mechanism to deal with the acquisition of an absolutely worthless degree.

"I can't believe this," I said when Fenris stood to leave me alone. "You're a downer."

"It's either that or I won't step foot on Greek Row."

Greek Row was exactly as it sounded. It was the sorority and fraternity neighborhood postured on the farthest end of South Campus.

Until sophomore year, I'd been a frat brother in Lambda Chi Alpha. It wasn't until I had to pick between fraternity fees and art supplies did I leave the brotherhood, but that didn't sever my ties with the friends I'd made. I was still considered an unofficial member who didn't have to wear ties or participate in recruitment.

It was no secret my mother's legacy was the reason I'd managed to get my foot in the door, but my charming good looks and knack for cutting a bad joke at the right time cemented my membership. No matter the stereotypes, the place was still important to me. Human beings can't be pigeonholed to a typecast, and I tried to view the place with dignity.

This isn't to say we couldn't be terrible people. There's no refuting the things I'd done, but sometimes, when it was three in the morning and we'd spent the night drinking on the house couches, an unabashed introspection revealed itself. We were fresh out of adolescence, some still a part of it, and there was an unspoken terror we shared. Everyone was undecided no matter what they told their advisors, parents, girlfriends or friends. It didn't matter if you came from a trust fund or worked at Taco Bell to pay fraternity fees. Nothing made sense and no one was prepared. We drank together and studied together to cope with the reality that the world might not go our way, and that was why I couldn't tell the house goodbye, even when I left on peaceful terms.

"Do you still want to go?" he asked.

"I never miss a Lambda Chi party, Fenris."

Ideas of youthful camaraderie plagued me for the rest of the day. I tried to sort through it while sketching, the chaotic need for immediacy and reassurance worked its way into what I scribbled onto my pad of paper, but nothing resonated as honest. I couldn't decide what wasn't sincere, and it was occurring to me I didn't know what I wanted to do for Senior Show. In some roundabout way, this lead to me realizing I didn't know what I wanted to do in life, period.

I wasn't the only one with this problem.

"It might be what she meant by an overall theme," Varric said, standing against the kitchen wall with thick arms folded across his chest. It was lunch and we'd ordered pizza. "We're drowning here, and when Flemeth said she wanted to bring Cassandra in again…"

"Maybe  _that_  should be the theme we all share?" Merrill asked. "Drowning is poignant."

Anders sucked hard from his straw. "I'd rather not delve into despairing clichés."

"He's right," I muttered and flopped down into a seat across from Isabela. She carefully set her Canon lens on the table. "We all need a common ground."

"But suffering is universal," Merrill insisted.

No one could argue with that.

"It's still heavy-handed."

Fenris' input made us turn our heads. He appeared from the hall like a fog, carrying a coffee mug in one hand and smoking with the other. He truly was a parody of himself.

"Where's Aveline?" Isabela asked. "Without her, this entire discussion is pointless."

"Donnic," Varric said.

"There's a problem when Aveline gets it in more than I do."

"A personal problem," I added and leaned back against the chair, tilting my head as Fenris walked past me. He caught my stare and I smiled. "How do you make despair less heavy-handed, Fenris? You've been awfully quiet about the show since the beginning."

"Believable despair is when you cut the bullshit."

"Bullshit…"

"Fluff," Merrill added. "You always know when someone's trying to make something miserable. It ends up tacky."

Fenris paused, reluctant. "She's right."

Varric smacked his hand over his heart. "They agreed on something."

"You see, Fenris? I'm not all that terrible."

"You're nothing but sugar," Isabela said. "Don't ever listen to him."

The first week of the semester, Merrill and Fenris had fought over what kind of dish detergent to keep in the kitchen, and for some reason, the disagreement had dissolved into an all-out war. After switching out detergents for days on end, Merrill went to Costco and bought the largest box of her preferred detergent available on the shelf. Because she'd bought it and it was there in bulk, that meant Fenris' preference was entirely pointless to purchase. So far, she was the only person to challenge him head on, which made her both admirable and petrifying. Fenris was yet to forgive her.

"What's the point in delving into purely emotional work?" Anders asked. He was looking directly at Fenris.

Fenris took a long drag and asked, "Is it really artwork if you're only capturing what's in front of you?"

"It's political. It's what I decide to observe that matters."

"Politics are an extension of feeling."

"That enlighten and educate the masses."

"Emotional solidarity is any different?"

Varric cleared his throat. "Fighting cocks, anyone?"

Fenris turned to face Anders head on who was looking at me for support, but I was a fantastical literalist. This left me without much room either way.

"Art is subjective?"

Anders and Fenris groaned in unison.

"The point is," Isabela said, effectively diffusing. "We need to agree on something."

"Before Cassandra is retrieved from sabbatical," Varric quickly added.

I clenched my fists and shook them toward the ceiling, borderline having a conversation with God.

"As long as we get through this without dragging a psychotherapeutic artwork session into the mix, then it'll be okay. I can't handle another Flemeth Powwow. Sophomore year she made me realize how invalid my feelings are. Do you know what it's like sustaining off instant noodles and masturbation because you've submitted to a state of existentialism?"

Everyone exchanged glances, even Fenris.

" _Yes_."

After lunch, we decided to reconvene the next time Aveline was present.

Fenris and I didn't leave for Greek Row until the summer sun was gone and cicadas were chattering. The trek across campus was a quiet one, mostly muggy. From the way he was fighting off the urge to clench his fists, I could tell he wasn't particularly excited about being introduced to a throng of fraternity brothers and their friends. It was either that or because he'd agreed to be my boyfriend for five seconds, which also had me clamming up. Fraternity or not, my ex-brothers hadn't wrung me for sexual fluidity. This was mostly because I didn't bring it to their attention, but also because I wasn't the first old money bisexual to live on campus.

"Hawke!" A chorus met me as soon as we reached the porch. "Hawke's friend!"

"Fenris," I corrected, jogging up the steps.

"Fenris!"

My little brother was standing in the doorway, leering. Periodically, I forgot Carver and I existed on the same campus. We either saw one another during holidays or when I offered to buy him Panda Express, a rare whim. I tried to greet him with a hug, but he stepped backward. Much to his anguish and my amusement, this didn't stop me, and we were soon embracing.

"He hates me. Look at him. He hates this. Carver," I said, determined, and squeezed, "Carver, hug me back. It's been so long."

"We were at Mom's last week."

Fenris stood behind me and didn't say anything. I fleetingly introduced him to Carver, who barely acknowledged Fenris, and then strode inside to find people I wanted to see.

"He's charming. A real 'kill animals as a child' type."

"You have a good relationship with him?"

"It's typical. I used to make him eat dirt. Do you have any siblings?"

Fenris cleared his throat. "One."

There was no elaboration, so I changed the subject.

"Have you ever had Jungle Juice?"

"What's Jungle Juice?" Fenris asked.

"The reason people forget the condom."

The Lambda Chi house was a testament to neoclassic architecture with its dirty fingers deeply embedded in the school's endowment. The floors were sticky, the couches purple, and the cluster of beer cans and solo cups littered across every semi-flat surface was unsanitary. Fenris clearly would've rather taken a dive in a dump, but he let me pour a cup of Jungle Juice for him. It'd been stirred in a Gatorade dispenser, long abandoned by the football team and adopted by yours truly.

"I think they used Hawaiian Punch."

Fenris took a sip and wrinkled his nose.

"You're not supposed to judge it on its taste but on how you can't tell there's about twenty different alcohols in there. If you're tasting punch and sucking apple slices, then it's good."

"I'm not going to get anything out of this," he said and stared into the cup.

Those were Fenris' famous last words.

Varric showed up some minutes later, surprised to find Fenris at my side with a cup in hand. He shook his bottle of beer at us and grunted when I used his shoulder as an armrest.

"You're really sweaty," I murmured.

"Look at all these saps and their shitty 'black out' in a cup." Varric turned and noticed mine. "That kind of night?"

" _That_ kind of night. Have you seen Merrill?"

Varric said he hadn't, and I looked to Fenris to see if he'd heard. He was in the middle of tipping his head back with the cup to his lips, having already finished the glass. When he pulled the cup away from his mouth, he dragged his thumb across his bottom lip.

Not wanting to find myself sober when he wasn't, I chugged my first cup and made sure we were on our second before the rest of my friends arrived. Varric ran after Isabela as soon as she entered through the front door, calling after her because she still owed him twenty dollars, but she was on a mission. More than likely, she was on a mission to find someone to take home.

"It's not bad," Fenris admitted. "I could drink more."

I admired my cup. "Told you so. Not the most refined thing on the shelf, but it gets the job done. You realize you've been really quiet, right?"

"I have a disinterest in people," he said, trying to quote me, "remember?"

"Was that supposed to be a dig?"

Fenris pursed his lips.

"And now I've made you mad." I chuckled, which didn't bode well with him, so I stopped. "You know, you never told me why you don't talk."

"You know," he mocked, "you're now acting entitled to that information."

I shouldn't have smiled. He was lit. "You were the one who offered it to me."

"Because I initially felt I should defend myself."

"And what about now?"

"I'm trying to decide if you're worth it."

I set my hand on my heart. "Wound me."

We were standing at the end of a crowded hallway. Fenris' back was pressed against the green wallpaper, and I created a barrier beside him by pressing my shoulder to it. My back was facing the majority of the crowd, and while his eyes skirted toward any sudden moment, Fenris mostly gave me his undivided attention. We could've been social. I should've been with Varric or pandering to Isabela's schemes, but there we were, submerged in our own vacuum.

Unexpectedly, Fenris reached for my free hand and guided it toward one of his hips. I almost retracted until I heard him murmur 'Merrill' beneath his breath. My fingers gripped the spot, surprised to find more muscle than bone, and I tugged him close. He allowed it and pointedly stole my glass of Jungle Juice to finish the final sips, giving me evocative eye contact as he did.

"I won't touch you if you don't want me to. "

"I want you to touch me."

I waggled my eyebrows.

"Hawke, stop it."

"You  _really_  like that Jungle Juice."

He crushed the cup and dropped it.

Fenris wrapped an arm around my neck and tugged me down with an incisive yank. We stared at one another, both listening for Merrill, and I cautiously reached up to cup the side of his face. With his high cheekbone cradled in my palm, I inspected his features once more, eviscerated by the mystique perfection and the way he kept searching my face with shifting eyes. Fenris exhaled a frustrated grunt, but his expression softened when my thumb drifted along one of his dark eyebrows, tracing downward over and over again.

" _Oh_ , so you like that?"

"Don't talk," Fenris suddenly said, closing his eyes.

"But if I don't talk, then how will she believe we're an item?"

"Speaking isn't what's going to make her believe we're an item." He stepped forward, and my grip on his hip became an arm encircling his waist. "You know that."

I dipped a couple fingers beneath his shirt. The erogenous touches made Fenris tense and then entirely relax, coaxing me to walk two fingers toward his back. He didn't seem to mind the way his shirt lifted, and I slowly traced each lower nodule of his spine with the lightest pressure, encircling the higher ones in a leisurely figure eight pattern.

Fenris shuddered.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

"No," Fenris murmured, but he pressed our foreheads together. " _Don't_."

"I won't, I won't."

My hand drifted to his abdominals and settled on his defined navel. Fenris hiked his shoulders and grappled for my biceps as I continued to watch him cycle through unexpected hyper-stimulation. His breathing hitched when I swiped my fingers along a closely trimmed happy trail, pushing them back and forth through the course hair until it reached the top of his jeans, and he murmured my name. Fenris pressed himself flush against me to hide the fact he was half-hard and airily groaned, encouraging me further.

"I really want to kiss you," I said, eyes half-lidded and noting the slight gap between his lips.

" _What on earth_?" Merrill's voice came from right behind me. I jolted. "My goodness. You move fast, Hawke."

Fenris was panting, his breath fanning against my lips.

"Merrill," I began, terse, "glad you could make it."

Fenris, shaken, muttered something about needing another drink before striding down the hallway and away from Merrill and me. I watched him go in disappointment, but I didn't plan on being rude to Merrill. I pressed my back against the wall and glanced at her. She looked at me, knowing, and cleared her throat.

"Is this what happens when you're closed up in a studio together for hours on end?"

"Something like that," I said, not sure how to explain myself. "How's the party?"

"Why're you asking me? You're here also."

"Only kind of."

She smiled as she sipped. "I apologize for interrupting. Do you like him?"

"We're drunk," I realized what I'd said and cleared my throat, "but I do. I think."

"I was going to introduce you to someone, but it seems he's caught your eye."

A corner of my mouth quirked, and I watched Fenris disappear around a corner.

"We don't really know one another."

"But you're getting to know him," she challenged and then looked behind herself. "You should probably go after him. Just don't warm his frigid little heart too much, he might evaporate."

With that permission, I pushed away from Merrill with a quick 'sorry' and kissed her cheek. From there, I followed the path Fenris had taken. He wasn't at the Jungle Juice station, nor was he anywhere to be found in the living room. I combed my fingers through my hair as I walked from room to room, trying not to stumble and holding onto the shoulders of both people I did and didn't know.

"Isabela!" I yelled when I saw here lounging on the kitchen counter like Titian's Venus. "Goddess of Kirkwall University, Keeper of all Balls and Hearts, have you seen  _Fenris_?"

She was drinking canned beer, her crop top incredibly cropped, speaking low and soft to some of the admirers she had. I watched as she disengaged them for me.

"Fenris was here?"

That was enough of an answer. I stepped through the backdoor and out onto the patio.

" _There_  you are."

Fenris was seated on the back steps, smoking and still drinking with eyes forward. He was entirely alone even though there were three picnic tables full of people in front of him.

"Sorry about that," I said, plopping down beside him. "I thought you'd left."

He glanced at me, full lips drifting from the filter. "Sorry about what?"

"I feel like I just touched you against your will."

" _No_ ," he quickly said. "No. You didn't."

"Do you want to go back to the studio?"

"No," he said again, but this time thoughtful. "I just want to drink."

Which is what we did.

We were already drunker than we thought when we started knocking back shots of Fireball, not taking them together but taking turns by passing a single shot glass back and forth. We'd found both items hidden beneath the kitchen table and decided whoever had left it there deserved it for something. Every person does terrible things, I reasoned. Fenris had found this acceptable enough.

"Why did you run off?" I asked. "From Merrill, I mean."

"Because…" Fenris was leaned in very close to me. I pressed against him in return. "Because Merrill was there, and I didn't want to hear her voice. I didn't."

"Merrill's actually a good person," I whispered. There was no reason to whisper. "She's probably the best person I know."

"That doesn't mean I have to think she's something-something."

"Say that again."

Fenris wasn't sure what I meant, but then he realized. " _Something-something_."

"Where did you pick  _that_  up?"

"Don't be rude. You're the rudest person I've ever met."

" _I'm_  rude?"

He took a shot and looked at me.

"I can't believe you think I'm rude. I'm  _good_  to you."

"Listen, Hawke." Fenris waggled the bottle in my face and then reached into his pocket for a lighter. He was one hit away from being a chain smoker. "You could always be ugly. There are worse things."

"Fenris, you give the advice of a drunk white girl."

He furrowed his brow.

"But I'm not ugly," I clarified. "That's what matters here."

"Your ego is the definition of global concern."

I ended up lighting his cigarette for him, and he breathed out the first drag in a slow stream. His voice was thick with smoke when he spoke again.

"You  _are_ very attractive," Fenris muttered.

"I'm glad we're driving this point home, but you're not hard on the eyes either. It's your words that are cutting."

Fenris hummed, no longer making eye contact with me.

"Don't deflect that compliment."

"I'm not deflecting," he said, being firm. "You say I don't speak much, but then I'm cutting. What's that supposed to mean? Does everything I say bother you? If so, then why're we here?"

"Stop searching for a reason to be mad at me, interrogator."

Fenris turned his shoulder from me, but he smiled.

"I don't talk much because English is my second language, but also because I've found others consider my voice grating, annoying. I endeavor to be as tolerable as possible."

"Your voice is like honey."

Fenris coughed and looked away from me.

"It is. It's smooth like smoke."

"Are you always this honest?" he asked, and I noticed the red creeping up his neck.

"Who told you your voice is grating?"

Fenris' eyebrows furrowed and then a fleeting sadness contorted his features. Something struck a chord, reverberated through me at that expression, and I leaned forward so he'd look at me. I was surprised when Fenris reached up and pushed my face away, maybe even vaguely offended, but I didn't leave. Instead, I scooted to the side and waited for his answer.

"He doesn't matter now, but he said it often enough."

"Whoever he is deserves a boot up his ass," I snapped, slurring. "You call  _me_  rude when there's people out there who'd say that to your face? He should've been killed."

Fenris paused. "I don't think that warrants homicide."

"I think it does. Those are the small insults that rot people. It's someone talking to a group about something they care about and being publicly put down and called aggravating. People don't forget those comments, those insults. They're parasitic and eat you from the inside out. Those are the small things, Fenris. Those are the small comments others say to break a person down so that they submit to a pecking order."

"You're drunk, Hawke."

"I am drunk, but I'm also right."

Fenris took the bottle from me and pulled me close.

"Let's go in."

" _Hey_."

"Hmn?"

"I really do like your voice."

Fenris smiled.

We stumbled back inside, and I didn't know what time it was or how long we'd been there, but it didn't feel particularly long. People were still filtering in, and Fenris didn't jerk away when I caught his wrist and guided him through the hallway. He'd lost the shot glass and was drinking from the bottle without even a shiver. He'd never had Fireball until then, but he'd called it 'cinnamon gum' in a bottle and insisted upon it being his new regular.

At some point, I think he danced on me, but that's not what I remembered.

I remembered climbing over a couch and grasping onto his hips to lift him over it. I remembered the walk back to the studio where he urgently discussed the significance of rotting fish in all of the Baroque work he loved. I remembered that light, that rare light in his eyes that signaled he was discussing something he loved without abandon. Though, what I especially remembered was the two of us stumbling through the art building's hallways, falling into the elevator and laughing as we drifted toward Studio One's unlocked door.

Fenris was the first inside, the first to take off most of his clothes.

"I want to sleep on your ugly couch," he murmured, helping me out of my tank top with determined tugs.

"You hate the couch."

Fenris approvingly inhaled when I pushed him against the nearest wall. He blinked to orient himself and then pushed his hands up my biceps before reaching down to undo my pants. I noticed how he momentarily dragged his gaze along my chest hair, but what was most striking were his hands. They were quick, knowing exactly what to do to get me stripped down to briefs.

"I mean it when I say I just want to sleep."

"We can just sleep," I said, breathing hard. "Sleep naked."

"Not entirely."

I groaned.

Fenris murmured something about patience and being drunk. I understood enough to not dare push boundaries and dropped onto the couch with a thud, kicking the blankets to the end and reaching for his hand. Fenris clamored on top of me, nearly kneeing me in the groin, and he laughed when I caught his knee before he left me seeing black stars. After a series of repositioning, he reached behind us for the blanket and pulled it over us. I exhaled when he settled on top of me with a sleepy drop and wrapped an arm around his thin waist. 

"In the morning, you're not going to like me nearly as much as you do now."

"Probably not," he admitted.

He eventually pushed my bangs to the side, and I stared up at the ceiling, head spinning.

Fenris murmured something soft in his mother tongue. The placidity of it was why I reached up and comfortably dragged my fingers through his hair, petting him until I was certain he'd fallen asleep for the remainder of our short night.

Drunken love, or when you're in love with someone for the night because the alcohol took your attraction level and disoriented it with a hard spin, is the equivalent to an emotional one-night stand. For only a single encapsulated segment of time, you're certain you could spend the rest of your life with the person you shared your intoxication with.

That was us, or at least, that's what I told myself before falling asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a nsfw chapter, but there's some allusion and pining.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. My mom passed away on the 6th, so I've been dealing with that along with a plethora of other things. I hope to get back to weekly updates soon. Thank you all for being so patient and commenting on this story. It really means a lot.

Two instructors who traipsed the hallways like ethereal gods defined the department. They spoke during their lectures with magical whimsy that forced their students to sit at attention with righted backs and agape mouths, entirely spellbound by both the enthusiasm and range each could fit into a single hour. Their amount of knowledge was beyond the capacity of the human brain, and there was a reason the pair stood over their pupils like the Colossus of Rhodes. Flemeth was one of the aforementioned instructors, but the other was an even greater sphinx.

"What is the obstinate voice inside the artist's head that torments him until he creates art?" Solas said, hands flat on the table in front of him. "Could it be we create art to further understand our existence, our morality, our individuality – which has never ceased to instill misery in even the greatest artists upon full realization? Art at its origin wasn't created to be consciously meaningful in the way that we now attempt to validate every brushstroke. Art was made to understand our existence at its bare bones, to understand not why we seek love, reproduce or engage in a wide range of emotions, but to come to terms with how alone we are in our heads. No other person will ever hear your inner-monologue. No other person will ever know you as you do yourself. You will never have an audience  _get_  your work."

"The Remorse of Orestes," Fenris said, "William-Adolphe Bouguereau."

"There comes a point in every artist's life where he must accept he's tormented by the Furies and not engaged by the Muses."

"Way to really douse the flame, Chuckles."

"Art is not romantic," Solas continued, "it is as inherent in some as it is to exist."

With a click of his laser pointer, the painting Fenris had immediately associated with the lecture appeared behind him. The projected image rippled over Solas' entirety, and the scarlet dress from one of the chthonic deities cast a violent glow over his face.

"Flemeth has told me you've reached a stopping point with your unified vision. Total unification in art is futile. Do not strive to work together. Manifest your internal monologue; be it through the reconfiguration of your universe or entire annihilation of yourself, and when it's at its most ugly, then you know you've ascended. Aristotle himself once said in the _Poetics_  that even the grotesqueness of a corpse is delightful to contemplate in a work of art. When that contemplation begins - you will find solidarity among each other."

"You're telling us to ignore Flemeth?" I asked and then nervously tapped my pencil. "You're asking to start a civil war."

"I said no such thing."

Anders was beside me, impatiently drumming his fingers and watching Solas with a concentrated arched eyebrow. He appreciated Solas, but Anders hated his frescoes.

"You're wrong," Fenris suddenly said.

This startled the entire room.

Solas didn't approve, but he was professional enough to ask, "And how is that?"

"One  _can_  know another entirely."

"You're implying you've experienced this?"

Fenris bristled, but he didn't back down.

" _Yes_."

"I'm always for expanding my understanding of others," Solas said and stepped in front of Fenris, "but I find it hard to believe you've encountered someone who knows you down to your finest details. Why don't you explain to us what exactly that's like? How does another reach the point where he can understand every thought process that sparks inside that conventionally attractive head of yours? It must be horrifically invasive to lose all sense of self."

Everyone grew obviously uncomfortable.

None of us were at the age where we felt remotely prepared to deal with the direction Solas was driving in. Merrill flicked her gaze to Aveline whose jaw had grown tighter and tighter with the passing seconds. She wanted to say something, but we'd been conditioned to let our professors get the last word. Not to mention, no one wanted to worm beneath Solas' skin. Losing him as an asset was even more detrimental than disappointing Flemeth.

Fenris didn't say anything and started to grind his molars.

"What you're describing is only possible when someone inserts himself into you. Those are not your thoughts. That is not your inner-monologue. That is being  _groomed_ , and what I'm describing has nothing to do with the abusive conditioning you're describing. When we lose sight of ourselves in the manner you've suggested, where we think another knows the finest threads of our conscience, then you've entered a relationship no better than a green-banded broodsac and a slug."

"A  _what_?" Varric asked, laughing at the word 'sac.'

"A green-banded broodsac is a mind controlling parasite that lives in birds. Its eggs pass through the bird's feces and are in turn eaten by snails. The larva then enters a stage where it extends long tubes, or broodsacs, throughout the snail's body. As the broodsacs grow, they protrude from the snail's eyes, resembling green caterpillars. The broodsac then overrides the snail's desire for darkness, guiding it into the open, and twitches as a way to appeal to birds until devoured. The cycle continues and the species lives on."

Isabela murmured 'brutal' beneath her breath, but she wasn't referring to the parasite.

Fenris inhaled sharply and my fingers contracted in want to grab his shoulder, but I decided against it.

"Many refuse to listen to themselves," Solas continued, "it's one of the hardest things for us modern humans to do, but once we accept the weight of our inherent loneliness, we can do anything. There's a line by Dylan Thomas I've always liked. It's trite, but I've found great consolation in telling another not to go gentle into a goodnight. Death is not always physical expiration, but can be found in the grip another has on our lives."

On that note, Solas ended class. There was no formal dismissal, and he only turned on the lights to start gathering his papers. We were stunned, especially Fenris.

Fenris didn't socialize, nor say anything to me for the rest of the day. Not that I could blame him. It was dark when I decided to prod at him in the studio to make sure he was coping. He hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast, and I was about to walk to the cafeteria.

"Fenris…" I stood behind the curtain, watching his shadow. He was postured at his desk and half-heartedly sketching. "Do you want to come with me to get food? They're probably serving garbage again, but I think we've all lowered our standards. If it's too bad we can always get dinner somewhere off campus. It'll be my treat."

The last part of the proposition made him drop his pencil, and I smiled.

"I'm not eating cereal again," he said briskly. "I refuse."

I pushed open his curtain and watched him tug a hooded sweatshirt over his head. He ruffled his hair back into place with both palms and strode toward the door, but I encircled my arms around his waist and lifted him to make him stop. Fenris grunted as I swung him around so that he was facing away from the door when placed back onto solid ground.

"I know you're starving, but I have to put shoes on."

"Humans didn't wear shoes for thousands of years."

"Have better faith in your ancestors."

"I barely have faith in our species now."

"Misanthrope," I whispered against the patch of skin beneath his earlobe and swayed him to the side until his right foot lifted. "You know that almost sounds as cool as lycanthrope."

"I know what that is," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "The Varulv is a much more interesting tale than whatever your Hollywood tries to generate as werewolves."

"Why am I  _not_  surprised you have werewolf commentary?" I swayed him to the other side. He grumbled. "That  _would_  be your jive."

"Are you implying something, Hawke?"

"Me?  _Never_."

Fenris gently pulled away so that I could put my shoes on, and we exited the building to start our journey to the cafeteria.

The majority of the student body was already tucked away in its dormitories, a few stragglers with Red Bulls in hand passing us in their own academic misery. The grasshoppers were talkative, and I couldn't stop tilting my head back to stare at the Big Dipper.

"Do you ever go there?" Fenris asked.

I dropped my gaze with a hum.

"Where?"

"That field."

I didn't have to look to know what he meant.

"You mean Sundermount? It's where I run when I'm either sick of the gym or it's too crowded. Have you never been there before? We could always go for a  _stroll_."

"I was going to say something about walking in the woods at night and running into bears, but then I realized I'm with the biggest bear there is."

 _That_  made me laugh.

Behind Kirkwall University stood acres upon acres of rolling hills and forestry meant for both our research centers and students to use for extracurricular activities. It was known as Sundermount due to an archaic joke long lost to the tides of alumni. The cross-country team used it more than anyone else. Sometimes people had picnics or bonfires, but it was commonly known as the Motherland of Hazing and Halloween Dares.

"Do you like bears?" I asked and hid my continuing laughter with a cough.

Fenris parted his lips and smiled with one corner of his mouth.

"You're thinking really hard about how to answer that."

"Does it seem like I do?"

"You spend a suspiciously large amount of time with me."

"Because we live together."

"Which is purely a technicality."

Fenris glanced back at Sundermount and checked his phone. The illumination on his face revealed a warm tinge to his cheeks, and he raised an eyebrow as if entirely engrossed with whatever email he was reading.

"It's weird," Fenris started and forwent dinner for the walk, taking a sharp left onto the brick sidewalk that would eventually dwindle into a dirt path. "I could've wrongly assumed many things about you, Hawke. I've heard horror stories about college campuses and queerness. There was one someone told me, about a child being put into a trunk with snapping turtles. Humans are strange in how they pick up small cues. Communication in general is strange, but I think you and I might be in a position where we're forced to consider them more."

"Want to know the truth?" I asked.

"I'll get it whether or not I do."

"I don't think I've done anything with you with cues in mind. I'm to that point in all of this where I either get refused or become some guy's sexual crisis. Most of this all goes without actually acknowledging the situation, which I'm fine with."

"I want to be surprised."

"But you're not."

"Not exactly."

We split a smile, and Fenris seamlessly dropped off the constructed path and into the fields with their tall golden grass. He reached out for a handful of blades, ripped it free and began to examine it with a lopsided mouth. It was too dark to see well, but he was still staring.

"Did you want to talk about what Solas was grinding you about today? I've seen pestle and mortars crush gentler."

"It was obvious," Fenris said. "He exploited my situation to make a point."

"Solas doesn't think kids' gloves and logic are synonymous."

Fenris remained quiet.

"I'm getting this feeling you didn't come here just for art," I continued. "Maybe it's just a nagging feeling because I want you to be more mysterious than you actually are, but no one leaves a country for their final year of university. That doesn't happen without a reason."

"Do you know the myth about Galatea and Pygmalion?"

"Something about building a statue into your ideal love interest and then it comes to life. I took myth my freshman year, but we didn't stray too far from the generic Ovid canon everyone learns."

"I was a Galatea," Fenris carefully chose his words, "and I was a good one. My Pygmalion carved me into loving him, into being the perfect someone to love him, and nothing felt better than thinking he'd breathed life into me. I stood on a precipice for him, all marble and warm only to him, for him. He made me think I was happy. He made me  _think_ , and because he made me think, he knew everything. It was all him all the time, and it was so  _good_."

"Was he an artist, too?"

"And also an art collector. He was a collector in general."

" _Ah_  – so he was wealthy and probably  _old_."

Fenris shrugged at the comment and walked ahead of me.

"It felt good at the time."

"I'm sure it did," I said and jogged up alongside him. A gust of wind blew against our backs and the endless sea of tree branches we were approaching lulled. "But when did it  _stop_?"

"Just this past year." But his tone had drifted. He was growing bored with himself. "Why don't you talk about yourself instead?"

"What's there to know?"

Fenris stepped in front of me and turned, reaching for my hands and walking me backward beneath the canopy of trees. Suddenly, it was too dark, yet neither of us thought to turn back. Fenris was fearless, but I knew the path. At the time, I wanted to believe he trusted me enough to not let him fall into a dangerous situation. Maybe that was true on some level, but Fenris also had the constitution of steel. He didn't fear conventional things.

"There has to be something up there," he insisted and reached to comb his fingers through my hair. This forced me to stoop downward. "You have to think."

"Not everyone's as good at engaging their inner-monologue as you are."

"But you feel things, don't you?"

"Distinctly, but it gets a little weird up there. I don't discuss it much."

Fenris pushed his hands down the sides of my neck and didn't break eye contact with me.

"I want to discuss it."

"Let me feed you first," I murmured and reached for his hood, tugging it over his head and then pulling him closer by its sides. "I don't want to ruin your appetite."

My face disappeared into his hood when our foreheads pressed together, and Fenris quietly laughed while wrapping his arms around my neck.

"I can think of one way I'd like you to feed me," Fenris whispered.

I let out a long and low whistle.

"This must be how Herod felt about Salome."

"Don't make inaccurate allegories."

"A lot of men would kill for you."

Fenris ghosted his fingers along my bottom lip, and I kissed them with a slight pop. He hummed, contemplating what I'd just said but then rolled his eyes in disbelief. With a small sigh, he removed himself from my grip and then walked around me, dragging his fingers across my navel. It was as if he'd choreographed the entire moment, and I reached for his wrist before he could walk away. This time I caught it, and he let me tug him against my chest.

"What do you want to eat?" I asked and wrapped my arms around his waist. My mouth lowered to his ear to finish my thought. "Aside from me, of course."

"Korean food," he managed, the smile evident in his words. "We could get takeout and bring it back to the studio."

"We're getting beer then."

"Beer and wine."

We called the restaurant while walking to the nearest liquor store where Fenris swindled me into buying him a quality bottle of wine. Technically, he didn't ask for it, but he'd picked it up and inspected it, which coaxed my goodwill into purchasing it for him.

He wanted to talk, which left me nervous. Introspection and confronting situations head one weren't what I was good at. I'd rather sway a person with charm and blatant avoidance than break through the paper walls of honesty. The idea of meeting someone halfway, letting us make the dialogue instead of predicting the dialogue myself? That was a lot.

On our way back, with Fenris smoking and inspecting the paper bag's weight, my phone started blaring  _Like A Prayer_ , and never before had I reached for it faster.

Fenris snorted.

"It's Varric," I said, defensive and almost accusatory.

I answered, expecting to get the first word in, but Varric beat me to it.

"You might want to get back here."

"Did something happen? Anders, again?"

"This might be worse."

Fenris glanced at me when I mentioned Anders, but he picked up his stride's pace in response to the urgency of Varric's voice. It'd bled from the earpiece. 

"We're almost back. I didn't know you were even around today."

"I'm sure the panoramic gets skewed when you're trying to dislodge your head from the foreign exchange student's ass."

I could hear the laugh on the back of his tongue.

"Are you trying to say something, Varric?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Hawke. Just get back here."

I hung up and Fenris looked at me, expectant.

"Your guess is as good as mine," I promised and started jogging toward campus.

Calm on the outside, I unlocked the art building's front door with every possibility churning through my head. We took the elevator upstairs to the fluorescently lit hallway, and I expected someone to greet me, but Varric only popped his head out of the kitchen and pointed toward Studio One. I opened my mouth to ask, but Varric rapidly shook his head and returned to the kitchen as the microwave dinged.

"What's going on?" Fenris finally asked.

"God only knows."

"Varric is God?"

I opened the door to the studio and stepped inside, but I paused. I could see the shadow of someone seated on my couch. With an aggravated 'hello,' I tugged back the curtain only to start.

" _Bethany_?"

My little sister, and Carver's estranged twin, immediately stood up with wringing hands. We stared at one another, and I did my best to remember the last time I'd seen her. Now old enough to legally drink, she'd lost a majority of her senior high school appearance with hair to the middle of her biceps and eyes no longer watery but ice instead. My sister was an adult, and there was something about it that unsettled me more than it should have.

"Garrett, long time, no see."

"Two years," I remembered and then held back the bite I wanted to add. Two years since she'd walked out. Two years since she'd left our mother. "Where's Sebastian?"

"That's actually why I'm here."

Bethany dropped her hands and let them swing at her hips. She was eying one of my pieces, which involved a lot of phallic imagery. I swallowed down the urge to reach for it and begin pointing out the rivers of ejaculation to drive her staring home, but then wasn't the time. She waited until the appropriate amount of anticipation built and then looked back at me.

"Sebastian left me," she said, her words hollow of feeling. "I want to come home. I want to live with Mom again."

"Good luck," but I reeled in the coldness. I reminded myself that I loved Bethany. I loved her very much. Sometimes it was even a paternal love. "Then why aren't you at Mom's, groveling?"

Fenris grabbed my arm to soften me, but I didn't understand why until Bethany reached down. She opened her white Chanel trench and revealed a distinct roundness I refused to acknowledge for what it was. It weighed heavily on her lower stomach, swaddled by a tight black turtleneck that'd concealed it as well as she'd probably intended it to.

"You have a womb tumor," I said, my mouth dumbly agape.

"I'm pregnant," she snapped, annoyed by my joke. "And I don't know what to do."

"Mom is going to murder you," I promised but then stopped. "And  _I'm_  going to murder Sebastian. Does he know you're pregnant? Does he know about  _this_? Where the fuck is that pious piece of Fortune 500 shit?"

"Are you traditionalists?" Fenris asked, and I turned to acknowledge him by setting down the beer and taking the wine and food from his arms.

"We're Catholic," I explained, "so when we want to be,  _yes_."

Bethany gestured at Fenris, and I remembered manners.

"Bethany, this is Fenris. Fenris, this is Bethany."

"I'm his little sister."

Fenris cleared his throat and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

She pointedly looked at him and then back to me with hopes of a proper title. I winked at her and she muttered something beneath her breath that was inaudible, but full of disgust.

“What  _exactly_  do you want me to do, Bethany?”

“Go home with me. Be there with me when I tell her. You’re her favorite, and don’t try to pretend you’re not. If you defend me, ask her to give me a chance, then this will be so much easier.”

“I’m not her favorite,” I lied with a slow roll of my jaw. “When did you want to go? Where are you even staying?”

“I have a hotel room,” she said and then scrunched her nose, apparently at the smell of the Korean food. She’d always loved it. I didn’t understand. “But I thought we could go tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”

“Not to interfere with family affairs,” Fenris started, his accent obviously surprising Bethany, “but telling your mother you’re pregnant in the dead of night is doubtfully the proper way to get on the right foot with her.”

I turned to Fenris and gently reached for his hip.      

Bethany arched an eyebrow at the two of us, and I dropped my hand.       

“We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

She cleared her throat. “Did you want to bring Fenris? Has he seen the Hawke Estate yet?”

“Estate?” Fenris asked immediately. “Your family has an  _estate_?”

Bethany clearly thought there was more to us than their actually was.

“It’s a bit of a long story," I quickly added. "Do you want to go, though? The timing isn't ideal, but I don't mind. I actually want you to go. You'll get the full Hawke experience in one trip. That'll really send you packing."

Fenris considered this for a moment, but then finally, "I'll go. If you want me to."

"Trust me. I do."


	8. Chapter 8

"Our mother was very  _Flowers in the Attic_ , minus poisoning her children."

"And the incest," Bethany quickly added.

"Right," I said and turned the engine over, "none of that."

Bethany had rapidly gone back to her hotel room the night before, leaving Fenris and I to the stench of our Korean food and beer and wine, but neither of us had been too interested in drinking. Whatever we'd planned on discussing, whatever Fenris had wanted to tear from me with that visceral little grip of his, was placed on the back burner until we found another private moment together. All that I'd been able to do was stare in disbelief over my little sister's pregnancy. Inclined to be protective, it wasn't so much my alpha male complex coming into play, but more the idea of her bringing a child into the world with Sebastian.

There were plenty of reasons Sebastian was a bad idea.

"Flowers in the Attic?" Fenris asked, not understanding the reference.

"It's a book series about this woman who leaves her rich, charmed life to run off and marry her husband who's also her cousin or something. Uncle, maybe? She returns to her childhood mansion after her husband dies in a tragic accident, but she and her mother hide the children she had in an upstairs wing that connects to the attic until the father forgives her for her incestuous marriage. The children play in the attic, make paper flowers – hence the title – and eventually discover the clause in their grandfather's will, which is like, their mother is disowned forever if it ever turns up that she had kids with her cousin. She then tries to off her kids in a greedy attempt to both remarry and inherit the entire estate, but the kids escape and are fucked up forever."

"We're making our mother sound like a wretch," Bethany murmured. "Our mother didn't marry her cousin."

"No," I nodded, "she just married poor, which is synonymous if you're wealthy."

"Garrett, incest and being poor aren't synonymous."

"The point is," I said, extending the vowels to effectively interrupt Bethany, "our mother married our dad after he  _sired_ me out of wedlock. As you can see, this is a trend in the Hawke family. Mom and Dad, or Leandra and Malcolm, lived a pretty charmed life in Lothering, but then Dad got sick and everything went to shit. It wasn't his fault. It's not like we  _blame_  him. Never crossed my mind, actually, but when he died, Mom came back to Kirkwall after being estranged since before I was born. The parallels here are more or less that she sought out her massive inheritance as an Amell and distributed it among herself and her children."

"So," Fenris started, "your lives are  _nothing_  like  _Flowers in the Attic_."

"We actually live in a shack."

"You're driving a Lexus," he muttered.

"A shack, Fenris. A regular shanty."

"But if it's your mother's family, then why is it called the Hawke Estate?"

"The Amell family was also extremely traditional," Bethany decided to contribute, "meaning Garrett being the first son gives him the right to the estate. That's why it's now unofficially the Hawke Estate and not the Amell Estate. Another Amell will never own the property and our mother adopted its eventual namesake for fun."

"She also just loved our dad."

"She also just really loves  _you_."

"Because I'm like our dad."

Bethany crossed her arms and looked away, and it took my goodwill not to roll my eyes. There was a rift among the Hawke siblings due to Mother's treatment of me throughout the past five or six years. These were things entirely out of my control, and I sympathized, but there were only so many times I could blatantly apologize for her attachment to me.

"Other than the situation with our grandfather's will, our mother is a pretty modern woman," I continued as we pulled onto the interstate. "This rain is going to be a bitch."

Fall had ransacked the trees, fading out the summer's final greeneries. When Fenris and I had initially stepped outside to load our luggage, we'd both immediately turned around to grab beanies and pack an extra couple sweatshirts for the weekend trip. The heater in my car was thankfully powerful and stopped our unanimous shivering, but my nose was still running.

"Where are you from, Fenris?" Bethany asked, sipping hot chocolate.

"Sweden," he said, the accent ringing hard. "I've been in the states since June."

"Do you like it here?" She turned around in her seat. "Kirkwall is kind of a dump."

"It is what it is. I have no immediate want to leave."

She was seated in the front due to carsickness and Fenris was settled in the back with his cup of gas station coffee. They continued their one-on-on conversation that bled into the politics of European countries; something my sister was far more versed in than me due to how much she'd travelled with Sebastian. I'd been to London twice, thrown up in an alleyway in Paris and had sex with a strange guy in Amsterdam, but that was it for me.

The Hawke Estate was an hour drive away from campus. It was still associated with Kirkwall's city limits since most of the people who owned houses in the neighborhood had their businesses there, but in its own way, it was very much like the Hamptons. If there was money involved, then odds are your children were raised in the country while you worked in the city and essentially existed as a weekend parent. Our mother hadn't had reason to leave us for the city, which was why she was more involved with the grazing society life than the cosmopolitan.

"How long have you known Garrett?"

"Since the semester started," Fenris said, being cautious.

"Do you think Mom will even be there?" I asked, changing the subject and switching lanes with an intentionally hard swerve. "You know how she goes on those weird trips."

"Wait until you see the inside of the house," Bethany said and reached for the jar of Kalamata olives tucked away between her ankles. "She always brings back the strangest things."

The Hawke Estate was a Georgian Colonial mansion that sat tucked away between a lakeside and wall of impossibly tall trees that materialized as if painted black. Our neighbors jokingly referred to us as the Buchanan family, but there was nothing there to substantiate the nickname aside from the style of our home.

Fenris was leaned forward, blankly gazing at the home with quiet discernment. He gave nothing away as we pulled onto the granite driveway that sat like a crescent moon before the front doors, and he only flicked his hair to the side while letting himself out of the car. We stood side-by-side in front of the looming structure, and I exhaled as I glanced his way.

"What do you think?"

"I've seen bigger," he said and then cast me a knowing half-smile, "but it's nice."

"Someone was _spoiled_  once upon a time."

"If only you knew."

"Are you a regular Emily Post?" I asked and followed him to the trunk where we began grabbing Bethany's bags and ours. "I can't even imagine."

"Your sister hasn't left the car," he observed, mostly to sway me from encouraging him to talk about himself. It was that obvious. "You should check on her."

"Don't try carrying all of that in yourself."

Fenris dismissively grabbed all of the bags himself as a quiet ' _fuck you_ ,' and I left him to suffer in exchange to check in on my sister's suffering. She was inside, staring at the house, when I reached forward and drummed my fingers along the window. After a second, she rolled the window down and I leaned into the car, waiting for her to explain herself.

She didn't even think to try.

"Are you okay?"

"Hardly," she confessed and rolled her shoulders back. "Do you remember when she thought Sebastian and I were a good match? Before he wanted to leave?"

I cast my gaze to the side and pushed back my bangs before clearing my throat.

"You've always hated him."

"I don't baselessly hate people, Bethany."

"He never did anything to you."

"Look," I started, trying to soothe her concern, "this isn't going away. You've decided to keep it and you're looking like a house, so I think it's too late to take care of it the circumspect way. Plus, had you wanted to, then I know you could've afforded it."

"I thought about an abortion."

"But you didn't get one, so we either face this head on or you're going to eventually show up with your water breaking, crying to Mother because you feel completely alone. She's not going to hate you. She's going to be disappointed for maybe two seconds when she finds out you're doing this solo, but that's general. Even I'm disappointed. Who wants to see someone going into having a kid as a single parent? Who wants that for their little sister? Who wants that for their _daughter_? It's a hard road."

The front doors opened and our mother appeared, waving her hand with a bright smile that could've invited anyone inside. She was dressed to the nines in vintage Chanel, a past to present reflection of Bethany's entire wardrobe, and a sharp bob.

She was pointed in the way she approached Fenris before either of her children. Leandra could sniff out a potential boyfriend quicker than a magpie on Tutankhamen's sarcophagus.

"Save him," Bethany muttered, "or he'll  _really_  never come back."

"Only if you get out of the damn car."

"You can't use your boyfriend as collateral."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"You are _such_  a liar."

"We barely know one another," I snapped and finally reached for the door handle. She yelled at me as I yanked it open. "Out, Bethany!"

"Are you two fighting already?" Leandra called, having introduced herself to Fenris. God only knew what Fenris had introduced himself as. Probably a prisoner. "I wasn't expecting either of you, especially Bethany. Why didn't anyone call to tell me she was in town? I have a couple ladies over right now, and I would've cancelled so that we could have lunch."

"Consider it a family emergency, Mother…"

"What do you mean? Is it Carver? Garrett,  _where's_ Carver?"

Bethany stepped out of the car at that, somehow wearing pumps with a cannonball attached to her gut. She stood beside me, and at first Mother approached us to give us hugs, hurriedly reaching for Bethany since they hadn't seen one another since Christmas, but she suddenly stopped. Apparently I wasn't the most observant in the family, because like Fenris, she'd instantly noticed that Bethany was expecting. It probably helped that Bethany was wearing red that morning, which gave her the likeness of a long-legged apple.

"Mother of God," Mom muttered, and instead of hugging Bethany, she reached for both sides of her protruding stomach. "Where on earth is Sebast – "

"Gone," Bethany said, simply. It was then I realized there was more to the story. She was icing herself over too thickly. "He's gone, and I want to come home."

"Well, of course you can come home, but is it  _his_?"

Bethany nodded, and Mother reached up for both sides of Bethany's face. She inspected her features, clearly trying to infer the story from a single exchange of looks, but there was no way she could gather that much, not even as a parent.

"Why don't you kids come inside," Mom said and she reached for my bicep to give it a gentle squeeze. "Garrett, show Fenris around. I need to talk to your sister alone."

"But," Bethany started, "Garrett can be with us. I want him to be. It's _why_ he's here."

"We'll talk about it together later, but right now I'd rather not have this conversation in front of my son."

Leandra's word was law, which was why I strode up to Fenris and took two of the heaviest bags from him, slinging one over my shoulder and hugging another beneath the opposite arm. We quietly climbed the stairs toward the front doors in silence, but once we were inside the massive foyer, I exhaled with sagging shoulders. I felt bad for Bethany, more than I ever had before. 

"What did Mom say to you?"

Fenris twisted his mouth to the side and then almost smiled, but he didn't say anything as we ambled toward the grand staircase that lead off into the family's bedrooms and guest wing.

"Are you not going to tell me?"

"She," he hesitated and raised an eyebrow, "she called me beautiful."

"Oh, Mother," I said, faux-exasperated, "always stating the obvious."

With the matriarch and Bethany gone to figure things out amongst themselves, Fenris was left for me to entertain, which wasn't difficult.

Behind the Hawke Estate sat a dock that extended into the lake. Rain hadn't reached the property yet, so Fenris and I gathered mugs of fresh coffee, along with something heavy to eat, and bundled up for the walk there. The boathouse hadn't been touched in years, and upon reaching it, Fenris stared at the building for quite a while before taking a seat on the planked dock beside me. The water was gray, and the sky matched.

"I've been thinking about what you mentioned last night," Fenris said, pausing to chew. "About not discussing the disturbing things you think about. About being scared."

"I never said I was scared," I corrected after quickly swallowing, "but go on."

"Have you ever tried reaching the sublime?"

"The sublime is subjective, Fenris."

I walked my fingers toward him and it was he who scooted closer, positioning his person between my legs after moving my mug aside. He took my hand and began to inspect my fingers, something he'd lazily done before. Thoughtlessly, Fenris pushed back my cuticles.

"The Dionysian rites are defined," he murmured.

"You mean ingesting enough hallucinogens and wine until you speak to  _gods_?"

"Do you know why they did it, though? The Dionysian cult induced trances to rid their members of social inhibitions. It created a safe space for ostracized groups. Think women, slaves, even foreigners. Once you were put into that state,  _anything_  could happen. Societal expectations were lost to the wind, and that was when self-exploration truly began."

"You want to do that with me?" I asked and Fenris shrugged as if it were the most general question he'd ever heard. "You do realize those ceremonies were much more than expanding the mind, correct? Plenty of other things happen when you go under like that."

The thought of engaging in some kind of orgy with Fenris made me clear my throat, but I wasn't going to pretend the idea was unwelcome.

"I'm aware."

I caught the side of Fenris' face and turned his toward mine with a subtle jerk. He didn't resist, hardly blinked, and his unmoved expression was something a normal man might've found unsettling. He was waiting on me to manhandle him, force a kiss out of him, but the steely gaze put me back in my place almost instantly. The sense of otherworldly dread he'd rippled through me was unlike anything I'd experienced before. It turned my guts to margarine.

"Do you want your coffee?" he asked, offering me my mug.

Plucking the coffee from his fingers, he settled against my chest and sighed.

"It's going to rain soon."

And as if Fenris had willed it himself, it started to sprinkle.

Lust was inevitable at that point, but the extent it reached after that conversation was terrorizing. To know he wanted to and was essentially putting me at an arm's length, almost as if it were some kind of game, was unnerving. It didn't help that half the time I wasn't exactly sure what his issue with the situation was. He wanted to shove drugs and wine down his throat until I bled myself out all over him and fucked him into the void, but he wouldn't even kiss me.

His decision, something I respected, albeit while confused.

We ran from the rain once it started to pour only to enter a dark and uncomfortably empty house. Silence rang through the massive structure, but I breathed into my hands with a small laugh. Fenris' nose was red and he was uncomfortably shaking, making me then take his hands and breathe on them with hot puffs.

"I wonder where they went," I said more for myself. "They're probably in the study."

"Does this house have a library?" Fenris asked, gently freeing his hands and walking ahead of me to inspect the carved marble that framed a dead fireplace. "This is amazing work."

"It's original to the house."

Fenris knelt down and fingered the outline of a ripe apple being torn from Eve's hands. He drummed his fingers along it and softly sighed, tearing his gaze away and redirecting it toward the ceiling.

"Did you want to see the library? The floors are mosaics and the walls are clay tiles, hand-pressed. I think you'd appreciate it."

"I'd like that."

I discovered Fenris' love for books as soon as we entered the library, and not in the way one off-handedly claims to love to read. Eyes wide and gleaming with stars, he was stunned into silence by the double-level library's endless rows of shelves. Everything was organized, virtually untouched for years due to both the Internet and lack of researchers in my family, and something stirred in me when I saw him approach the nearest shelf. The room hadn't been loved since my grandfather died, and the dreary place I'd avoided for years was suddenly much warmer.

"Do you know where the books on horticulture are?" he asked.

Fenris pulled a book, flipped through the pages and then smiled when he returned it to its appropriate spot. He flitted to another shelf, trying to find the pattern in my grandfather's organization methods. Much to my disbelief, he rapidly discerned the system of classification, muttering the sections beneath his breath, translating them into Swedish.

"I didn't know you liked to garden, Fenris."

He flicked a humored expression over his shoulder and continued pulling books, always examining them and putting them back as if he were handling an infant. Certain books were almost as large as his torso, thick with tired pages unread for decades.

"It's not for gardening," Fenris shot back and began ascending the stairs to the second level. "How else are we supposed to figure out what plants they used for hallucinogens?"

"God," I breathed and followed him, "you're serious, aren't you?"

"I like you, Hawke," he declared, "and I'd like to show you just how much."


	9. Chapter 9

We scoured bookshelves only to come up empty handed, and with an evidently disappointed Fenris, were called away by my mother's invitation to eat lunch with both her and a composed Bethany. The general calm surrounding the tabletop was an unnerving sign, but whatever was to be said went over my head. It was Fenris' earlier suggestion that ruled the roost, and I quietly picked at my sandwich with the occasional glance in his direction. He was poised, listening to my mother, and whether or not he cared about her Russian Sage was veiled by a general attentiveness I quickly concluded as the result of training.

Fenris gave the appearance of control, full lips forever in an even line as he flicked his gaze in animatronic displays of quaintness. Even the lucidness he exhibited when drenched in animalistic thought processes beguiled me.

Bethany kicked me underneath the table.

"Did you show him the docks?" Mom asked and apparently for the second time. "The weather should be better tomorrow if you feel like taking out the boat."

"Do you even like boating?" I asked Fenris.

He stopped mid-bite, potato salad perilously hanging from his fork.

I knew that was a  _no_.

"We'll talk about it, Mother."

Fenris looked to the side in veiled relief.

"There's always that festival in town," she chimed. "That'd be nice. Maybe Fenris and you could take out the horses."

Bethany snorted, evidently imagining Fenris on a horse.

"We could," I said and cleared my throat. Fenris sank another inch. "Mother, tell me about your sage, again. I don't think I heard the last bit."

It was still raining when we finished eating.

Fenris didn't return to the library and instead grabbed his sketchbook and pens from the guest bedroom. He reappeared in the secluded den I'd asked him to meet me in, but he didn't announce his presence. With my head lulled back and brain lost in thought, there was no way for me to sense that he'd entered the room. It was how Fenris dropping his full bodyweight onto my lap came as a genuine surprise. 

I groaned when the air burst from my lungs, suddenly laughing in pain.

"Sorry," Fenris said, but he didn't mean it. "I didn't know where else to sit."

" _Ass_ ," I muttered, good-naturedly, and I tried to stretch. "We could do something other than hang inside."

"I don't like boats."

"I figured as much."

"And horses are very large."

The observation made me smile, as if the size of horses was supposed to tell me exactly why he didn't want to ride.

"Tell me what you want to do, then."

Fenris flipped to a clean page but not fast enough to hide the sketches of me.

They were chance moments captured when I wasn't looking. The posture of each suggested they'd been accomplished while either in class or when we sat across from one another in our studio. Unlike Fenris' paintings, there was grace in the lines. Not some hard earned expression of despair layered over and over again in oil and rubicund pigments.

"Talk to me about the Dionysus rites," I said and reached for the small of his back. "Why do that when we can smoke a lot of kush and experience existentialism that way?"

He comfortably shifted on top of me when I dragged my thumb along the nodules of his lower-spine. Fenris uncapped his pen and started scratching ink across paper, occasionally flitting his gaze toward me. I covered my face with my hands.

"My beauty is too much for the page."

Fenris tried not to, but he laughed.

"Uncover your face."

I dropped my hands and he reached out to push back my bangs. We held a stare, but I couldn't handle a moment that might be intimate, which was why I waggled my eyebrows. Fenris muttered something inaudible beneath his breath, possibly in Swedish, and lowered his hand in exasperation. Seeking forgiveness, I reached for him and pulled him down.

He crinkled his nose in aggravation when I firmly pressed my mouth to his cheek.

Fenris held his sketchbook close to his chest and then settled down beside me, revealing the page with its barely started sketch of my face. I took the pen from his fingers, only pausing to stroke my thumb along his hand. 

I didn't know what I was drawing when I started, but it didn't surprise me when his face manifested on the page. This was how most of my sketches of him happened. One second he was in front of me, and then the next there was an entire page of his most minute features. I liked his shoulders, the ways he could look at a person with a single gaze and make said person question their intellect, how his lips twitched to the side before he broke into an unapologetic sneer.

"You're sort of an open book," I noted, more to myself as I concentrated on the shape of his bottom lip. "You're one of those people who thinks he's not being transparent, but you're like glass."

"You think I'm an open book because you can't take your eyes off me, and anyway, glass skews things."

"You know you're beautiful," I paused, "but I think I knew that from the start. It's the way you carry yourself, confident."

"There's nothing wrong with understanding your arsenal."

Fenris was wedged between the back of the couch and my hip. He scooted onto his side in a more complete position and tapped a spot he found too incomplete in the sketch. His hand skirted along my chest, cheek settling on my shoulder, and he watched me draw with concentrated intensity.

"I don't think that'd be enough," he said in response to my question. It was delayed enough to make me stop and wrinkle my forehead. I realized he meant the weed, and I nodded with a mouthed 'right.' "It's not the state of mind I want for  _that_. That kind of high isn't deep enough."

"But we could still smoke if you're into it. Consider it a trial run."

"That we could."

We exchanged a pair of knowing glances, and I was the first to set the sketchpad aside. Fenris scooped it up when I stood, and this time it was he who reached for me. His small fingers wrapped around my wrist to make me pause, and I helped him to his feet with a gentle tug. Fenris didn't let go of my hand as we climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

Having someone in my childhood bedroom wasn't as strange as it could've been, mainly because it'd aged with me. That said, the paint was still juvenile in its sleepy blue-grey, the comforter a nauseating red, and my walls were sectioned off into geometric plains thanks to band posters I didn't have the heart to peel free. All of which was offset by the touches of someone who'd left behind high school, such as stacks of bills and passive aggressive shaving kits, both compliments of Mother.

Hidden beneath the bed was the glass bowl I'd lovingly sucked off throughout the duration of last summer, and the tin box beside it contained Blue Dream. Faintly stale, I inspected what was left and decided there was enough to make the weekend.

Fenris dropped onto the mattress with a small bounce, but I reached for his ankle and slowly dragged him onto the floor.

"Meet Picasso," I said, referring to the abstractly shaped bowl in all its multicolored ugliness. The colors were matte and unfortunately dull in their pastel collage, but its bulbous shape gave it a kind of charm that only I found attractive. "He belonged to Malcolm and was lovingly gifted to me in his Last Will and Testament. This was an actual part of my dad's  _estate_. In fact, I'm certain Picasso is why I exist. Can you imagine Leandra toking up? Leandra dropping the leaf?"

"It has a  _name_."

"Picasso, the Son Maker."

A sweet berry aroma drifted between the two of us, as I started to grind and pack the bowl, carefully listening for either Bethany or my mother. Fenris leaned forward to inspect the tiny crystals along the nugget's tan threads, and he admired their intergalactic rock candy appearance. It was what I'd smoked during my last crisis. It was how I'd survived the summer.

Being the gentleman I was, I let Fenris take the first hit.

The way he arched an eyebrow while sucking down the milky plume of smoke wetted my tongue, and the same sensation I'd garnered from the fraternity party followed. His beauty was like rubbing a sugar scrub into skin until it flayed, raw and bloody. Fenris was too much of a good thing, but somehow, not enough. He didn't let himself be taken, and an indolent thrum of need chased him like a dangerous cloud, threatening to strike its lightning without warning.

"The strain's a little commercial," I said with a tight voice after taking a hit, letting the smoke soak into my squishy lungs. I exhaled the long stream between us. "But it does the trick."

"I haven't smoked since I arrived in the states," he admitted. "I used to regularly."

"That explains a lot. How else could you look at baroque art and feel the shit you do?"

Fenris denied a smile as I handed back the bowl. He pushed his bangs to the side, and the way he looked away made my self-control ricochet around my skull.

"Are you going to make fun of me again because I like rotting fruit?"

"I'm _not_ making fun of you," I said, as if scandalized. He gave me a critical look before taking another hit. "Right, so I'm making fun of you, but not in a bad way. Make fun of me for painting phallic imagery in my work. I'm subconsciously trying to make amends with my alpha male state and the fact I'm sensitive to the point of being inept. That should make you feel better about yourself."

"A still life of gleaming fruit and rotting meat doesn't come across as subliminally sexual?"

"In the most abstract sense. Are you telling me that when you paint a cluster of sweating apples in a golden bowl you're actually venting your highbrow belief that the Original Sin is relatable in the context of yourself?"

He pointedly handed me Picasso, silent, and I paused in surprise.

"It  _is_."

"It is  _not_."

"Then divulge."

Fenris cleared his throat and exhaled  _hard_.

"I think about sex a lot."

"Welcome to your early twenties, Fenris."

He stared at me, losing patience fast.

I cleared my throat and gestured for him to continue.

"There's a brick wall I haven't been able to breach for years. I want sex constantly. I'm biting the heel of my palm over it night and day, but there's something about it I can't get past. I know logically the reason for it, but even with that acknowledgement, it's unsurpassable. I think about the conservative nature of baroque art and the sexualizing of religious iconography, and how they veiled their frustrations with wholesomely unassuming images. I think about dew on fruit, split grapes and crushed berries streaked across cutting boards. I think about peeled citrus and raw meat in endless cycles because it's the only way I let myself fathom a fuck."

"In short - you  _really_  need to get laid."

We were on our third hit, and the cerebral high was setting in.

"More than anything."

"There are plenty of people who would."

"It's me who  _can't_."

"Because of that guy," I said, and Fenris uncomfortably shifted backward, pressing his shoulders against my bed frame. "What  _exactly_  did he do to you?"

"Everything," Fenris dully answered. "I loved it."

I blinked and then my mouth –

"I think about fucking you a lot."

"I know you do."

We stared at one another, and had he been anyone else, then I would've set aside the bowl to lock the door and initiate.

"Cocky," I said instead of acting, sounding smooth, even smiling.

"And yet I could never hold a candle to _you_."

I wondered what exactly he meant by that.

"Do you want another hit?"

"One more."

We spent the entire weekend in a haze implemented by Picasso.

Bethany disappeared without so much as a word to me, supposedly with our mother most the time, and because of that it was only Fenris and I.

The house felt like ours, empty and echoing whenever we turned a dark hallway and drifted into a corridor I hadn't bothered to inspect since I was in high school. The rooms were dusty, and seeing as we never had people visit, there were places my mother's hired help even refused to venture into. The house creaked and groaned beneath the weight of autumn wind, but the noises morphed into jokes for us as our bare feet created mushroom clouds of grime.

It was juvenile, but when one was as stoned as we were, then it didn't matter that we played hide and seek in a maze of lightlessness.

"Wait," he breathed hard when I found him in a dark corner, my arms around his waist as I dragged him into a small bedroom. Our adrenaline was pulsing, and he suddenly laughed when I kissed his throat. Fenris moaned. " _Wait_."

\- so I waited.

It was much later when Fenris found himself seated on the kitchen countertop, eyes red and fingers repeatedly reaching into a bag of pita chips while the other held a glass of wine. Somehow, the clock had already struck midnight, everyone was asleep, and I hadn't managed to come down since we'd started smoking.

My brain was a fishbowl, and everything was perpetuating in a lag.

"I think we should become gods."

Fenris' suggestion came out of left field.

I was leaned over the counter with my forehead pressed against the cool marble. Tongue tingling and certain that the construction of time was dissolving around me, it was as if I were being sucked into space. Fenris was a black hole. Fenris was a cold remnant.

"I'm swimming in marshmallow fluff," I murmured.

"Slow motion flushed down a whirlpool into the cosmos."

"What kind of god would you be?"

Fenris set down his wine glass, and I turned to face him. The narcissism of that question made me think of Caravaggio's  _Narcissus_. Fenris peering at his reflection seemed a fair comparison to his disposition, but after a moment of wonder, he was the type to violently thrash against the water's surface, destroying what was heralded as perfection. He was Narcissus with a vendetta, yet a parallel to a vindictive Leto. 

"Nemesis," he said pointedly.

"You're so much more than that." 

Fenris cleared his throat and softly chuckled. I could taste his laughter and didn't bother to conceal my frustrated grunt.

"It's your turn to answer."

"I'm not a god. I'm Achilles. I'm man."

"Being mortal is dull," Fenris said and leaned over to grab my chin and make me look at him. "Being mortal means you do the gods' bidding. Why would you want to be nothing but a man?"

"Because someone's gotta do the dirty work."

Fenris stared at me without a telling expression, and his holding grip turned into a grasp on my jaw. He pulled me to him with a direct tug that I followed through by pushing myself toward him. Knowing his claws were in deep – that he was the one in control – Fenris didn't reject the way my arm encircled his waist or how my hand caught the opposite side of his face.

Instead he welcomed it. Eager, he wrapped his thighs around my waist and yanked me closer with his legs, the collision threatening to break me. Fenris clung to the fabric of my shirt with hiking shoulders as we immediately fell into a pace of fluid grinding.

"Do you want this?" I asked.

He paused, and with a sudden exasperated sigh, brought his mouth to mine.

My groan was unmistakable.

There was no reason to withhold it when he clamored for my shoulders, his sudden hitched breathing injecting understanding between us. Fenris' mouth was hot, firm in what it wanted with its succulent rolls and tiny gasps. My hand – the one cradling his face - trailed down the side of Fenris' neck, and I flattened my palm along his lower back before I leaning his spine toward the counter.

It was unexpected when he reached between us and pushed his hand down my navel, fingers comfortably feeling for my dark happy trail while he urgently rocked against me. Fenris' hands then dove into my hair, one then dragging down the side of my face as our breathing synced, and I thought about how he wanted me, how desperately he wanted whatever he'd been denying himself. I wanted to give whatever that was to him. I wanted to devote myself to a stranger. 

Fenris parted his lips with a gasp.

My tongue swept along his.

"Fuck me, Hawke."

The kitchen light flicked on.

God was dead. 

"You're so lucky I'm not Mom right now."

Fenris and I abruptly disconnected with a pointed, wet pop. All of his limbs dropped from my body, and had I been less of a man, then I would've screamed.

" _Bethany_ ," I said, cool and too calm. "Baby sister..."

I planted my hands on the marble and hung my head, brain sizzling from both my high and visceral disappointment.

Clearly rattled with the spell broken, Fenris attempted to catch his breath as subtly as possible, but his shoulders still lifted and fell. I watched him snatch his glass of wine and drink half of it in one go. He wouldn't look at Bethany. He wouldn't look at me, and I couldn't blame him. We'd been caught sucking face in my mother's house, one permission slip away from taking clothes off and making the beast with two backs for the very first time.

I kept reminding myself not to scream.

"I didn't mean to interrupt, but some of us use the kitchen to eat," she said, hair messy and eyes slated from fatigue as she walked to the fridge. "You smell like a dirty hippie."

"Don't kick a man while he's down."

"You're anything but _down_."

"I'm going to bed," Fenris quickly announced, hopping off the counter and making a beeline for the door. "Goodnight, Bethany."

He didn't say a word to me.

I watched him walk away as Bethany called out her goodnight, and I stood there, stunned. Bethany must've seen my face because she cleared her throat and stared at me expectantly.

"I don't know," I said, answering her unspoken question.

"I've never seen you as flagrant with another person before," she murmured and pulled out a container of cold chicken. "Mother even said something about it, and she never says anything about you aside from praises."

I wordlessly reached and took a piece for myself, eating it with bare hands. She followed my example.

"What do you mean our mother  _said_  something about it? We're wallflowers here. What matters right now is that buttered loaf in your oven."

The word 'buttered' made her scowl.

"She thinks it's strange how you two behave."

"What?" I asked, heart dropping. "What _exactly_  did she say?"

"You look at him and seem lost."

"You two haven't even watched us interact," I started, but Bethany gestured at me with her chicken leg. 

" _That's_ what she means, though."

"Don't be cryptic, Bethany."

"There's no other way to describe it."

"I'd rather not think about my mother disapproving of me," I said, deviating the conversation for the sake of myself. "What's the situation with the baby?"

"Mom said she's more than happy to keep me until the end of the pregnancy, but if I stay here and use her money for nannies and things, then I have to go back to school. She told me that a man is not a financial plan, and it's up to me to make a life for myself, but I can tell she's hoping Sebastian will come back into the picture. I don't know why she didn't believe me when I said it wasn't going to happen. She's in denial on top of just never taking my word."

"Get the potato salad out," I said and grabbed us forks. I handed her one. "Don't kid yourself. He's going to come back when he knows there's a baby involved. You're looking at a lot of lawyers and one hell of a custody battle after it's born. But to be fair, you didn't even tell me  _why_ you two broke up. One second it was you who left him, then the next it was he who left you. Make some sense out of it for me. I'm trying to follow here."

"He…" she hesitantly started and furrowed her brows. "He doesn't like women, Garrett."

My blood ran cold.

" _Oh_."

"Mn," Bethany made the noise and nodded. "I didn't tell Mom, though."

"Shit, Bethany."

I couldn't look at her. I couldn't. I couldn't.  _I couldn't._

"I know she knows about  _you_ , but it's degrading to tell your mother you're not with your boyfriend anymore because he's not attracted to you. I found out, and we agreed it was best to go our separate ways. He said he needed to figure it out, and I said he _really_ did."

"You found out?" I asked. "He was cheating on you?"

"In our house," she said and sucked in a sharp breath, sounding more annoyed than upset. "In that custom bed we spent a damn fortune on. I should've asked for it."

"You didn't have any idea before that?"

"Not at all," she paused, " _why_?"

I'd known.

_I'd known._

"No reason," I murmured, sounding disgusted. "It's just something you kind of always think you'll pick up on."

"People can be terribly good liars."

Bethany averted her gaze to the potato salad.


	10. Chapter 10

"I'm going to call him," Mom said as Fenris and I stood beside my car, preparing to return to campus. "No daughter of _mine_  gets abandoned during her pregnancy."

"Admirable, Mother, but I think that's up to Bethany."

She hugged me, and I pursed my lips at the blatant disregard. The idea of Sebastian returning to the forefront of our lives made my skin prick as if forewarning me of hives. Oozing hives, specifically. 

"But he's literally a  _prince_ , Hawke," she whispered into my ear.

"Where Sebastian's from you can _sneeze_  and become a prince."

Fenris chuckled behind me.

It was the most positive reaction he'd had to me since Bethany caught us on the countertop. We'd spent the past several hours in suspension, Fenris in the library and me seated with my laptop on my knees, reading up on herbal inebriation outside of weed. He wouldn't look at me aside from small conversations about what he'd found, and even then, he was terse. Who he was blaming and for what were the questions I wanted to ask, but I figured it was better to let him diffuse on his own time.

We returned to campus when the sun was setting. Fenris had slept for the majority of the ride home, sometimes asking me for song titles when my driving playlist switched tracks.

"What's that?" I asked when we strode toward our studio side-by-side, luggage rolling behind us and alerting whoever was there that we'd returned, ready for more beer, more pizza.

There was an envelope taped to the door with Fenris' name artfully inked across the front. He paused and blankly stared at the paper before aggressively reaching up and yanking it off, the tape ripping from the sheer force. He stuffed it into his hoodie's front pouch and tossed his bag down in the foyer. Only after he'd shucked off his boots did he tug the envelope out and reach for an X-Acto knife. Fenris smoothly tore through the side, removed the folded piece of gold stationary and opened it in front of me.

Whatever he was reading wasn't in English, because he was mouthing through it without concerning himself with me. His expression grew increasingly dark the farther down the page his eyes drifted, and he muttered 'fuck' beneath his breath before tossing it onto a metal table. I watched the paper drift down, half-slide toward the edge, and I reached out to stop it.

"Dare I ask?" I said, after a silent pull.

Fenris rubbed his face with both palms and then glanced at me.

"It's bad," I answered for him.

"Bad would be a kind word."

"I'd ask to read it so you wouldn't have to explain yourself, but I don't think I could if I tried."

Fenris handed me the letter and pointed at the signature.

_Danarius_

"Nice script," I observed and tried not to be exasperated by Fenris' dramatic sigh.

"It is not _nice_." Fenris yanked the letter from my view and clenched it in his fist. He shoved back his bangs and sharply inhaled. "It's the name of the man I'm running from."

"The sugar daddy?"

Fenris sneered at the title and I raised my hands, prepared to engage in self-defense.

"Hardly the designation I would use."

I thought back on his initial tone when we'd discussed the, then nameless, Danarius during our walk through Sundermount. Fenris wasn't being nearly as coy now that he was toe-to-toe with the man. I tried not to overthink the potential deception on his part.

"And he said something in there that upset you."

"He's come to collect my debt," Fenris explained while looking past me. "He paid for ninety percent of my education, my exhibition fees, the private tutors and my rent. He paid for my food and clothes, and he bought me whatever I found interest in. Not even for hobbies, but unnecessary luxuries to govern my mood."

"In exchange for  _what_? Your time?"

"My  _affections_."

'Affections' was a loaded term. While I'd initially thought the arrangement to be entirely consensual and ideal, Fenris' mood was wavering the signals.

"You were an escort."

"That would be the kinder name for it. You soften your words too much, Hawke."

"Forgive me for not calling you a  _whore_ to your face. But what does he want?" I dug and realized Fenris was entirely impossible to get flat answers from. He lived to perpetually deflect, even when it wasn't the right time.

"He wants  _me_. I'm his investment. I'm here illegally, and he knows what Flemeth did to inspire the paperwork. He said he would gladly exploit that information to have me sent back. To make matters more debilitating, he's currently setting up residency in Kirkwall until I finish my semester. Afterward, we'll be returning to Europe, he says. He wants to forget the whole thing."

Fenris bitterly laughed before he continued.

"Isn't that kind of him? He's always been thoughtful."

I stared him, stunned with a gaping mouth.

"This can't be legal."

"Neither is my existence in your country, but here I am. Danarius has always taken what he wanted, and he wants me. He wants his consolation prize."

Fenris strode into my studio and took a seat on the couch. I kneeled down in front of him and gripped the cushions on either side of him.

"Does it say how he found you?"

"It doesn't have to, Hawke," Fenris reassured me. "He has money."

"Maybe I can do something," I offered.

Fenris reached out for my shoulder, pursed his lips and squeezed it.

"I won't take your charity."

"Don't consider it charity. You endured my sister's drama and my mother's teacakes. You told her you thought her stale Earl Grey was delicious and then didn't call a cab when Bethany caught us three seconds away from making the beast…"

He rolled his eyes to the side and I reached for his chin.

"Hawke, I'd rather not be touched right now."

This was my cue to drop my hand. I let it lie, lifeless on the cushion once more.

"My mother would help you."

"She has enough going on," Fenris said and leaned back.

I thought about our position, and how if he'd been anyone else, then I would've given him an unapologetic blowjob to soften his teeming stress. The idea of Fenris being relaxed was something that rang through me like a prayer. I imagined his lips no longer pulled downward into a creasing frown, and his mouth open, unfurling into a faint smile as he sharply breathed. Sex wasn't supposed to be a token, but it was futile to pretend it wasn't a good gift for someone who wanted it. Fenris didn't want it, though. He was a sealed jam jar afraid of an expiration date.

We didn't talk about the letter again.

Isabela showed up with Merrill an hour later, holding four pizza boxes.

"How was Lady Amell?" Isabela asked once we were in the kitchen. She was obviously seeking an opinion from Fenris and not me. Isabela knew I loved my mother too much to shit talk her. 

"There was more salmon on rye than I care to ingest ever again," Fenris said.

He plopped down at the kitchen table with his paper plate loaded with pizza.

She laughed and then leaned forward. Fenris' eyes darted down to her voluminous chest barely concealed by the floral V-neck sweater but quickly returned the gaze to her face. Isabela noticed and laughed. For weeks she'd been calling Fenris a prude.

"Are you going with us to the Tethras home?" she asked. "There are less teacakes and blooming tea pots. Varric's family never stays in-house anymore. Not since his grandmother kicked the bucket. It's sad shadow of what it once was, but it's where we've gone for the past couple semesters when it's crunch time and we can't think. I prefer it to Hawke's."

"God knows I can't think," Anders suddenly said, appearing in the doorway like a ghost. His hands were sullied by paint, and he looked morose. "Maybe it's the senior malaise, but somewhere between this summer and fall, I've given up."

"Never thought I'd hear those words from you," I said and smacked his back as he walked by.

Anders shrugged, and I knew the next morning he'd be preaching about perseverance.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "When did you plan to go?"

"Varric said he'd drive us this Friday."

"You should see the lake," Merrill added with a sigh. "I once cut my foot there. It was a nasty slice, but Hawke carried me all the way to the car. I felt so bad about bleeding all over Bianca, but Varric didn't mind. He told me the thing needed a little more life. He's the best, you know."

"Come with us!" Varric shouted from down the hall. "Because if we don't get something ready for this semester's review, then we're all going to be fifth year seniors."

"I'll go," Fenris said, sounding confident in his decision.

Anders looked at Fenris, surprised, but he decided not to say anything.

The week took its time.

Whenever Flemeth asked me about what I was working on, she found herself presented with the same noncommittal hand waggle I'd been giving her since the first week. Midterms were threatening me like a guillotine, and the drowning panic was becoming too much. A weekend at my mother's should've been a weekend locked up in my studio until my brain functioned, but I'd been subconsciously procrastinating, thankful for my baby sister's turmoil because it was distracting. Fenris was finding solidarity in my pain, but he veiled it better. Instead of sketchbooks full of seamed ideas, he was painting, constantly. This made Anders and I loathe him during studio hours, whenever Flemeth would pop her head into the classroom.

"You have to keep creating," she snapped. "People say the page will always be there, and the canvas will be too, but your refinement won't."

Anders slowly brought the end of his paintbrush to his lips and pushed it down his throat. He was prepared to choke on a dick and die from it.

"What're you even doing?" I asked Fenris through a whisper.

"I don't know," he admitted in a soft panic, sounding angry with himself. His brushstrokes were fast, unlike anything he'd done before. "I have no fucking idea."

Anders digested that, and we exchanged a look of relief.

We drove to Varric's family home after classes late Friday.

What Isabela hadn't mentioned about the home was that it was borderline creepy. Massive much like my own, the difference was how there were no frequent gardeners milling about the property or a charming stable overlooking a lake. There was no blooming fall gardens or freshly washed cobblestone driveways meant to charm the Women's Club. My estate was held in suspension, waiting for the day when Bethany, Carver and myself would produce enough grandchildren to fill its endless bedrooms. It was implied that, once I graduated or finished my MFA, I would live with my mother and so would my wife or husband or whoever decided to take my sperm donation into consideration.

Varric's house was not entrenched in the same hopefulness. No one had officially lived there for years, and only sometimes the central rooms were reopened for large family holidays or summers when his uncles felt like pretending they enjoyed to fish as much as they enjoyed scamming the general public. The frontal fountains were grimy and posed as the Muses, expensively crafted just for the Tethras name, but the brick walls were being choked by unremorseful ivy, ruining the exterior's stability with digging roots.

"It looks like a place where people come to die," Aveline said, more for Fenris than anyone else. "But it's charming enough inside."

"I think the impending sense of doom you feel on the outside is what they call  _character_ ," Varric added and parked his vehicle.

We filed out of the Chevy and began tugging out impossible amounts of work materials. Fenris stood beside me with his arms full, eyebrows furrowed but no words spoken to tell me whether or not he was aghast by the place.

I reached for his arm and pulled him to the front door.

Later that night, we cooked a group meal and opened the bottles of wine stowed away in one of the dusty pantries. There was political discourse involved, Anders' radical discontentment setting the mood for a high-tension discussion constantly diffused by Varric's and my sense of humor. Isabela had grabbed Fenris by the waist and plopped him down on her thick thighs, and Aveline and Merrill had started swiping through a tablet to admire a sale on supplies, constantly looking up to interject their opinions and ask Anders the basic who, what, when, where and why.

My eyes couldn't stop drifting toward Isabela and Fenris. More than once I'd slept with Isabela, well versed in the way she could ride my name straight from my memory. Her affections for Fenris had gone from viewing him as a prickly pear to finding him malleable, a perfect doll. Fenris seemed to enjoy her affection, which startled me. I'd grown aware of how sporadic his tolerance for women tended to be. Men were always treated with lukewarm consideration, but he spiked his shoulders at the sight of most women, eyes shifting nervously whenever they moved too fast or gave him compliments.

It was a wonder he took Flemeth up on her offer.

Isabela had looped her arms beneath Fenris' armpits and flattened her palms along his solid pectorals. Her face appeared over his shoulder as she unapologetically felt him up, but her victim seemed unmoved. Fenris glanced at her, eyebrow raised into a steadfast question soon compromised by amusement. Seeing his approval, Isabela hummed and swayed him somewhat, whispering into his ear until he chuckled into his wine glass.

She made it look easy.

Isabela was the only woman I'd met who could make a man go face-down and ass-up first. It was because of her brutally honest interest, that lucid confidence that made me sweat. Most men didn't want to fuck Isabela. They wanted her to fuck them.

Fenris caught me watching, and I could tell he wasn't sure how to respond. His doe eyes glimmered in waiting, seeing if I would break first, set the tone, but I did no such thing. Too much pride.

"Hawke," Varric said and handed me a knife, "stop posing and chop something."

All through dinner, I was unreadable but internally pissed. Fenris wouldn't look at me as Isabela continued to dote on him, and I was ready to eat my palm because I wanted them both. I wanted to see them together, enjoying one another until it was my turn to participate, but at the same time, I wanted to rip Isabela away from Fenris and promptly tell her to fuck off. She had no right as my best friend, but she had every right as a human being with its own agenda. The moral confliction made my wine taste thick, the soup we'd made lackluster.

"Maybe we should ask Solas for help," Merrill suggested as we picked apart our meal.

"He'd speak in riddles," Aveline said and handed me the bowl of bread. "I'm really sick of his riddles right now. This shouldn't be hard. We've been working together for years."

A few of us glanced at Fenris, but she waved us off.

"Well, we can't keep saying  _we'll figure it out_ ," Anders murmured and stabbed his spoon into a potato hunk. "The end of the road is here. At this rate, we'll be hanging wet paintings."

"Not everyone here is a painter, Blondie," Varric said, matter-of-fact.

Fenris cleared his throat, and everyone stopped.

"I have an idea," he said.

This wasn't like him. While Fenris had engaged in plenty of conversation, even going as far as to joke with us and embed himself in our friendship pyramid, he'd rarely contributed to our current plight. His brain was always churning, that much was evident, but he always seemed to be looking for the right time, the perfect moment that never came.

"Go on," I encouraged, trying not to sound cautious.

"Hawke will know what I'm talking about." Fenris paused and took another bite to give room for my response. I exhaled but let him go on, anxious. "Has anyone here ever heard of the Dionysian Rites?"

There was a soft pause before Anders raised a hand.

Fenris nodded, and in that mocha voice of his, smoothly articulated everything he had to me, but with less passion, less fervor. He continued to eat as if he were discussing the weather and not an attempt to see part of the pantheon, to chase the sublime as a unified group and give our individuality to each other. Fenris was acting as if this was like attending a self-help seminar at the local Holiday Inn. The lack of gravity made it seem as easy as Isabela's charm.

"Is that a common thing to try where you're from?" Varric asked. He was trying to make light of what'd just been said, but he was discerning its worth.

Fenris dropped his spoon onto a napkin. "No."

"It's just hallucinating," Anders shot at Fenris. "No one experiences the pantheon because the pantheon was created for humans to reconcile with their humanness, give it some worth."

"Hallucinating still sounds fun," Isabela murmured and quickly drank afterward in case someone dismissed her. "It might help remove the sticks up our asses."

"Or put one there," I managed to which everyone groaned. I grinned.

"Okay, so hypothetically," Aveline began and leaned forward, "say we attempt this asinine ritual with your  _safe_ and _legal_ drugs, then where will we get them? Where do you plan on doing this without anyone finding out?"

"We could do it here," Varric offered.

"I think it's a great idea," Merrill insisted, sounding more excited than the rest. "People have been doing this for centuries. What makes us above the people who came before us?"

"Knowledge, science," Anders muttered but then cleared his throat. "Are we really agreeing to this? Because if so, then I know where we could get anything we need. My father knows everyone, and there are plenty of plant-based substances around labs. He buys them off companies all the time. Whether or not its legal is entirely a matter of opinion."

"God, help us," Aveline whispered in disbelief.

"Dionysus," Fenris corrected in self-satisfied amusement. "Dionysus, help us."

When everyone had gone to bed, Fenris and I silently lay in the same bed together in an attempt to sleep. The house was massive but several of the hallways had been closed off, much like my own. Fenris hadn't blinked when Varric suggested we room together since we already shared a studio, but he hadn't mentioned the single queen-sized bed.

"Fenris," I whispered once it was obvious he wasn't asleep. He kept shifting his legs and changing positions in his restlessness.

"Hawke," he smoothly said back and then reached behind himself for my arm. He pulled me closer, and I paused at the thought of him wanting to spoon. After I relented, he appreciatively sank back against my chest and settled my hand on his navel.

"Are you going to sleep with Isabela?" I asked. As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't, but Fenris didn't respond the way I'd expected. He abruptly laughed.

"Are you asking because you want to watch?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," I teased and then buried my face into the back of his head, arm tightening around him. "I saw you two at dinner."

"I know you did."

"Then you did it on purpose."

Fenris exhaled and turned his shoulder back to look at me. His eyes glowed from the minimal light in the room, and I reached for his chin to traipse fingers along his bottom lip. This time he didn't tell me he didn't want to be touched. This time he kissed my fingers until I could've sworn he wanted to suckle the tips. I thought about fingering his mouth but stopped myself. Every waking moment was becoming those impulsive thoughts.

"Is that what it seemed like?" Fenris shifted to face me and laid his head on my pillow so that we were close. We reminded me of school children at a sleepover after being told to go to sleep, wanting to continue the discussion but not wanting to get caught.

"Maybe that's just what I wanted."

"I want to wait until we perform the ritual."

"That sounds like marriage," I joked and Fenris pressed his palm to my nose before looking away from me. "But what if it sucks? What if I get in there, and it's basic for you?"

"Isabela reassured me that would not be the case."

"She did  _what_?" I asked and jokingly rolled Fenris over onto his back, hovering over him. He tried to push my face away again, but I fought him with the pressure of my big head. It wasn't to encourage a make out. It was to be like a ram running into a wall. "Is that what you two were talking about while I was slaving away over a hot stove? She would know, though."

Fenris actually laughed  _loud_ at my fighting head, and the sound was enough to make my chest stutter. He threatened to punch me in the nose, but when I kissed his hand, he grunted.

Fenris stopped pushing and brought me down into a kiss.

"We don't have to kiss if you don't want to kiss," I said, half-teasing but meaning it all the same. Fenris responded to that by weakly groaning and wrapping his thighs around my hips.

"You're an idiot," Fenris murmured against my mouth. I took it as a compliment.

"I can't help you like idiots so much," I countered and caught a side of his face.

I rocked forward between his thighs, and he reached for the bed's metal bars when friction happened. His face and ears grew hot right in my palms, and I thought about everything I knew I shouldn't right then. It was impossible to do otherwise, and Fenris' inability to not play with the waistband of my sweats was making things unbearable.

"Shit," I suddenly breathed and tugged back from Fenris who covered his face with both hands at my abandonment. I watched his chest rise and fall and hated him for it. "We should sleep or talk about our grandmothers or something. Maybe we should discuss an orphanage."

"I don't want to," he countered and rolled over onto his stomach.

I thought about sex and how innately human it was. How human beings liked to mate in dark hovels, secluded in privacy like animals.

Fenris pushed down his sweats and revealed the backs of his naked thighs extending from a pair of black boy shorts that left nothing to the imagination. From behind, I could see he was hanging heavy, fabric barely containing what needed to be touched the most. He looked eager and prepared to finally break whatever barrier we'd been building together since the moment I asked to kiss him, but I understood there would still be a limitation. There had to be a clause.

"Fuck my thighs," he whispered heavily.

There it was.

His small hands were kneading the foreign bedspread.

"I don't have any lube. Did you bring lotion or…"

"Wait," he murmured.

Something heavy, like a cement block, collided with the floor down the hall. I settled my hand on Fenris' lower back and noticed how the air had returned to the room. There wasn't time to be disappointed by the interruption, and instead, I retracted with an aching cock, thinking about how I wanted to unhinge it from my body until the discomfort passed. Fenris grunted in annoyance as I strode toward the bedroom door. It wasn't until Isabela's peeling laughter echoed did his true annoyance manifest.

"What is she  _doing_?" he asked. I noticed how he hadn't removed himself from all fours.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

I jerked open the bedroom door and leaned out. Isabela, Merrill and Varric were throwing things at one another across the hallway and into their bedrooms, waging war against one another because Varric had recounted an unsavory moment about one of them. Aveline stood in her doorway across from mine, looking defeated by all of us.

"Could you three not?" I called out, and Fenris scoffed due to the amused tone in my voice. It wasn't even close to a threat.

Anders appeared at the top of the stairs with a bowl of lentil soup in hand. It was loaded with the bread from earlier.

"Good," he started with a mouthful, "you're awake. We were just talking about taking a walk."

"It's past midnight."

Fenris appeared behind me. His hands swept toward my hips and held me as I pressed my temple against the doorframe. My arms crossed over my naked chest.

"So it is," Anders teased.

Dressed in heavy school sweatshirts and assorted beanies, we drifted from the house in an energetic wave. Merrill was skipping ahead of us, swaying her dancer arms high above her head to instill momentum, and Isabela and Varric were singing Irish pub songs while escorting Fenris' bristled form. Their dramatic strides and robust gesticulations were solely meant to humor Fenris who was doing his best not to humor them. Even so, it wasn't long before Isabela and Varric had hooked either one of his arms and engaged Fenris in a song even he knew.

"Idiots," Anders murmured but laughed when Merrill stopped by a pond to show us how she had been taught to interpret nature with her body in her last acting class.

"Why are we taking a walk again?" Aveline asked as she tried not to shiver.

"Because we're too damn young to be in bed at a responsible hour!" Isabela answered.

Aveline crossed her eyes.

We lingered down the yard in a dizzying cycle of conversation. It felt like summer again, before all the classes and before each and every one of us had been bogged down by uncertainty. There was an addictive carefreeness about our time together, even if we were anything but carefree. A gust of imminent end drew itself around me as I watched each of my friends intermingle in a rare coexistence that felt too right, too perfect. Of course it would end, I told myself as I watched Varric tug Fenris down to confide one of his witticisms.

"You know I researched that ritual," Varric announced.

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

"I think we might all want to read the fine print before agreeing to it," he continued and Fenris glanced at me. "An orgy is an orgy, but not to some of us."

"It's a possibility, not an expectation," I countered.

"Hawke," Varric sighed and dreamily looked toward me. "I always knew you had it out for me. I've wondered when the day would come that I'd have to tell you it's platonic, but I think that's now."

"Heart shattering," I said and feigned being taken aback. I touched my heart.

We grinned and Isabela snorted.

"It doesn't change my answer," Isabela promised. "And you, Merrill?"

"If it's not expected, then I don't care," she quickly added, nervously playing with her sleeve. Merrill was embarrassed by how she didn't care, and I was trying not to smile. "As long as none of you mind that I'm fine with it, that is."

"Ghastly," Anders said and then looked to me as if I was supposed to agree with him.

I didn't.

"I couldn't do that to Donnic. I won't even risk it," Aveline readily admitted. "But I could babysit the situation. Knowing the rest of you, I'd say you'll need supervision."

"Do you think this qualifies as too close?" Varric asked and chuckled.

Fenris slowed his pace to match mine, and I slid an arm around his waist. This garnered a couple looks, and Anders stopped in both shock and realization.

"Don't tell me there's group incest," he snapped in disdain. "Find me something worse for a friend group. I dare you."

"I'm a part of the group now?" Fenris asked with a tinge of a smile.

"One of us, one of us, one of us," Isabela chanted, rhythmically smacking her thighs. Varric joined her and was soon followed by Merrill.

"You were the second you walked into that classroom," I reassured him.

We found a field full of tall dead grass and collapsed onto our backs in a disjointed heap, tangling our limbs and sleepily staring at the sky as wind gusted overhead. Varric and Isabela both fished out thick joints, and it was Fenris who offered the lighter. While rotating the two of them at once, the six of us discussed our shared professors, the on campus politics, where we hoped to be in the next five years and how certain we were that our hopes were going to be dashed. The 'end of undergraduate' fatigue coated every promise we'd held onto from freshman year, and it was only Fenris who stuck out among us.

"I'm going to go west," he said with unwavering determination. "I'm going to disappear."

"Disappear," I confirmed and my voice was hoarse. "That sounds perfect."

After another long stint of walking, all six of us piled into the same bed and draped across one another in a warm mound, telling more stupid jokes and yelling whenever someone dared to bring up a humiliating story or fart. We fell asleep that way. As we'd always been, we were too close for anyone outside of the house to ever fully understand, but it was comfortable. I'd never been more comfortable with a group of individuals in my entire life, and it explained why the sorrow of us potentially going our separate ways was sometimes too much to bear.

"Tell me you want me to stay," Fenris whispered to me when everyone else had gone to sleep. He was touching my lips, tracing the curves and a concentrated glint.

My arm was beneath his neck like a pillow, and at his words, I tugged him to my side.

"I want you to stay."

In the morning, I woke up to Fenris lazily handing me a cup of coffee and firmly kissing me on the mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final chapter before the biggest shit show on God's green earth.

The morning after our waltz around the Tethras property, Bethany called me while I was painting. She pointedly asked what I wanted for Christmas, whether or not I'd be bringing the New Friend for the holidays, and finally, if he was officially my boyfriend. Before I could answer, she switched gears to excitedly tell me about the recent ultrasound she'd had and insist the baby was more than fine. This somehow segued into the fact Mother hadn't laid off about Sebastian, and how she was now crossing her fingers for a boy because she wanted to name it 'Malcolm.' Bethany told me all of this in a flurry, which was why I could only concentrate on the most important topic at hand.

"You should just tell her," I said and abandoned my brush with a slight toss.

"That's easier said than done coming from you."

"I just think you might as well drag him now before the baby's here. Mother needs to be prepared for this or she'll go into mourning when you need her to teach you how to warm a bottle."

"Is it any of my business to tell her?"

"In this case, I think you're safe to make that move."

Fenris walked into the room, and I cast him a quick smile. He mouthed 'who' and I mouthed back 'Bethany.' He nodded with a low chuckle and set down his steaming mug. We'd spent the entire morning bitching and groaning in one of the Tethras House's parlors, using the floor to ceiling windows' streams of natural light to our advantage. Fenris had disappeared for a sandwich and only returned with coffee, but I wasn't surprised in the least. He was a group eater, which was both one of the most specific social quirks about him and my theory as to why he had no fat on top of his defined muscles.

He returned to his studying, but I knew he was listening.

"Maybe I'll tell her when we're all together for Christmas," Bethany continued.

"Do you hate our mother? She'd have a heart attack if you defiled her baked ham like that."

Bethany and Fenris both snorted.

"You're the only one in this family who knows how to handle her."

"The real Hawke curse."

I told Bethany that, while I did love her, I had to work, and she chided me for not telling her what I wanted for Christmas. After promising I'd send the address to the nearest coal refinery, I hung up with a defeated shoulder sag. Fenris waited the appropriate amount time before he turned over his shoulder and gave me a look that requested I explain the conversation.

"She won't tell our mom her baby daddy is light in his loafers."

"That's going to come out sooner or later."

Fenris paused at his accidental pun and smiled, self-satisfied.

"It will," I agreed and laughed, but my laugh dwindled into guilty resignation.

"How long have you known?"

"Don't be so perceptive."

"Then don't wear your heart on your sleeve."

No one had ever told me I wore my heart on my sleeve before. This was because I didn't. I wasn't sure why Fenris was assuming I had Open Book syndrome, but I had to assume it was because he wasn't aware of how comfortable with him I'd become.

"Years," I admitted, "but sexuality is fluid, and when you're a prince from a staunchly religious family, then there's always room to rebel. I thought he'd gotten over it."

Fenris clearly found that entire thought process annoying.

"How did you know?" he continued for the sake of conversation.

I hesitated and weakly murmured, "The folly of youth."

Fenris slowly repeated the words in his soft accent, trying very hard to find sense in them. He was stuck on the word 'folly,' but when he realized what I was insinuating, his shoulders hiked. Fenris completely turned around in his chair and faced me.

"And you didn't tell her?"

Fenris had never been more scandalized.

"Don't start pointing fingers about keeping secrets."

I'd participated in carnal acts with Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven and Lover of our Lord and Savior, during one of Leandra Hawke's agonizing East End summers. We were both college bound teenagers with high expectations that always seemed to link back to doing the missionary position solely for procreation. He'd given me a look at a garden party that I'd returned. It'd progressed quickly.

I explained this to Fenris while continuing with my painting.

"You two had sex in an elderly widow's pantry."

"Not sex," I corrected. "It's not sex until you put it in something."

"You put  _it_  in his  _hand_."

"You're very clever today."

He grit his teeth and rolled his eyes.

We painted in silence after my reveal, and I wanted to know what Fenris was thinking. Did he find me repulsive for letting my sister hook up with my sloppy seconds? Was I actually as big of a garbage heap as I constantly assumed I was? There were plenty of questions I could've prodded him with, but they were all for my self-esteem and not questions that could solve the predicament I'd brought upon my sister.

"Who all knows?" Fenris asked after the pregnant pause.

"Only Varric and you."

"You should probably do yourself the favor of keeping it that way."

He'd been thinking about it nonstop since I'd told him.

"Also," I suddenly remembered while wanting to change the subject, "Bethany, which also means my mother, want to know if you plan to spend the holidays with us. I never come home for Thanksgiving, but I'm there for a month during Christmas and the New Year. Did you want to come home with me? It'd be safer than the dorm and less depressing."

Fenris dragged his fingers along his cheekbones. I realized he was embarrassed.

"I'll consider it."

That was good enough for the time being.

Anders then appeared in the doorway with his phone in hand. He waggled it at us and cleared his throat with proud posture.

"I made some calls. I'm paying to have everything Dad's botanist friend suggested expedited. It should be here by the middle of the week, and Varric said we could come back next weekend. You know, it's amazing how dense some of the world's smartest men are. I told him it was for an accredited 300 level lab, but anyone thinking critically would be suspicious of a group of college kids ordering a buffet of organic hallucinogens, especially considering I'm a studio art major. Why would I be taking a 300 level lab course?"

"He was probably thinking about how he was young once," I said and then stood, frowning when my back cracked.

"How's the work coming along?" Anders asked and inspected our canvases. "Oh, look! You've made approximately three inches of progress since I last asked, two hours ago."

"The academic system has ruined my enthusiasm for art," I explained. "I'm coping here. I'm trying to care."

"Everyday of my life," Anders dryly added.

Fenris grumbled when I took his coffee cup and told him to eat.

"I'll eat with you," I bribed.

Fenris followed Anders' and my lead to the kitchen.

Merrill was helping Varric make a pizza, and I swiveled over to the fridge to grab the supplies to make two more. Fenris appeared behind me and comfortably touched my shoulder as he reached for a bottle of water, and I thought about kissing him. Had Anders not been in the room to critique Friend Group Fundamentalism, then I would've. We hadn't alluded to what had happened the night before, but it weighed heavy on me. The sight of Fenris on all fours, asking me to fuck his thighs, was difficult to shake. 

"Isabela and Aveline went to get beer. Don't ask me why they went together," Varric explained after things had been quiet for too long. "But has anyone considered what we'll be chanting when we try this ritual? Is there anything all of us as a group can take seriously? I don't think we're going to be using Alanis Morissette lyrics."

"That's going to be the hard part," I said and unpackaged the pre-made crust. "Taking this seriously, I mean."

"You have to believe in this stuff for it to work," Merrill explained as she meticulously finished her pizza's design. "I believe. People don't start a religion over nothing. An entire civilization was moved by their pantheon to establish cults and ceremonies. They must have felt something incredible. Don't you think? I'm sure that sounds ridiculous, probably silly, but – it's a thought."

"Drugs," Anders promised her. "Drugs do a lot of things."

Fenris leaned forward and pointed out the pieces of green bell pepper he wanted on the pizza, and I added them for him. We turned it into a game. Fenris would direct me to what topping he wanted, and I would thoughtlessly place it on top of the sauce and cheese until he was satisfied with the amount. Luckily for him, I could eat anything and be satisfied.

"We should use Greek," Fenris said.

"Greek," Varric flatly repeated. "I hate to break it to you Fenris, but I don't think we've got any Classics majors in the room."

"Minor," Merrill reminded him. "I'm a Classics minor."

"Can you read Greek?"

Merrill furrowed her brows because they both knew the answer.

"I can do it," Fenris offered.

"You know Greek?" I asked, not sure if I was surprised.

"No," he said and there was that soft, self-satisfied look again, "but I can use the Internet and translate generators to look up the pronunciation."

Fenris made it sound simple, but he dedicated his entire week to that translation, disappearing for hours on end from the moment he returned to campus. Our library was large, and while it wasn't on scale with a research university's library, there were enough resources there to keep Fenris occupied in between classes. He drifted in and out our room like a ghost, sometimes sitting down beside me to translate English words that were archaic and cumbersome. He was the last person who should've been translating Greek to English, but whenever I asked to help, he promptly told me the way I could help was by bringing him food.

"What kind of food?" I asked my phone's receiver.

The temperature kept dropping and the sky above me was starless. Everyone I passed was walking at a pace that begged for warmer places, and I could've sworn I was smelling snow. 

"Something that won't take long?" Fenris suggested, and I could hear him flipping through pages.

I turned on FaceTime, and he answered with a reluctant frown.

"Thought you could use a break."

Fenris didn't look as thankful as I wanted him to, but he still hummed and kept his eyes on me. He was tired, wearing one of my oversized fraternity sweatshirts on top of leggings he hadn't washed in a week. His bangs were pushed of his face and tucked behind his ear, and I could see the forgotten paper cups stacked on the library desk. It wasn't during midterms or finals, which meant he was mostly alone. I could hear the ceiling fan whirring overhead, and he surprised me when he rubbed his eye and smiled with a corner of his mouth.

"Are you bringing food?"

"I'm walking to the cafeteria right now. I know we're sick of pizza, so I won't bring you that."

"Bring me something from off campus. There'll be rewards."

"Rewards?" I asked and rubbed my bearded chin. "What kind of rewards?"

Fenris glanced from left to right, even popping his head up like a meerkat, before reaching for the bottom of his sweater. He lifted it along with the V-neck underneath and showed off his pectorals with an arched eyebrow, looking like he was completing the most mundane of tasks.

"The goods," he said, entirely straight-faced.

"I'm hanging up."

Fenris glanced to the side in offense, so I didn't hang up.

"I loved them," I quickly said and Fenris immediately laughed at me.

 _He_  hung up.

" _Tart_."

I turned around to walk to the nearest Thai restaurant.

With a bag of food sagging from my hand, I found Fenris' headquarters tucked away in the library's upstairs, hidden by a forest of unending bookshelves. He was hunkered down with a pencil between his front teeth, trying to decide on something as if the world depended on this divine intervention from the gods. He glanced up when he heard my footsteps, and this time it was my turn to hand off food and plant a kiss on his mouth.

"How's it coming along?" I asked.

Fenris let me unpack the food for him as he pushed around notes.

"I've settled on two chants, but I want to make sure I'm getting their nuances right. It's difficult when English isn't my language and that's what I have to translate it to so that everyone can better understand…"

"You should let me help you."

He didn't seem interested in my help and instead grabbed the container he recognized as his usual order. He popped it open and began to pull rice noodles from soup broth with chopsticks.

There are some people who are simply beautiful. In the way licorice sits rigid and waxed to noir perfection, something that can be admired like an impervious gem, Fenris postured himself in my life like a precious stone. I thought about being a toddler again. The times when I would sit at my mother's vanity and snoop through her belongings for treasure were as vivid as the foreboding sensation that followed when I eventually opened her jewelry box. Fenris was the same gust of unreachability, but I kept admiring him, considering the cons of being a thief.

"Theia mania," Fenris said and snapped me back to reality. "Do you know what that is?"

"No," I answered honestly. Fenris could always pick up on bullshit.

"Plato and Socrates defined it as  _divine madness_  or when a god intervenes in someone's life. Things such as chaotic inspiration, but especially love at first sight, were theia mania. Now we rationalize immediate connection as chemical misfires, but I prefer the idea of being transfixed through a god's will. It'd be the only lack of control I'd give myself over to. I already plan on giving myself to it."

"It's not intervention if you plan it," I baited.

He smiled while drinking from his water bottle and set it aside.

"You weren't planned."

"In more ways than one it seems." I let the joke fall flat as Fenris reached out for me. He rolled his eyes and goaded me with a lean. He wanted a kiss. "Is this how I'm helping?"

"This helps very much."

The idea of being the product of a god's will was why I took my time kissing Fenris. Raw unaccountability made every facet of what we were doing okay.

"The other night when we almost…"

Fenris shook his head and experimentally kissed me with foreign lightness.

"I don't want to talk about it."

We finished eating only for Fenris to resolutely call it a night and pack up his books. Once he'd checked out the materials he needed, we quietly walked back to our studio side-by-side, arms brushing and thoughtfulness building a wall between us. I reached out for the back of his head and trailed fingertips down his neck, and he hummed in approval.

We were kissing again by the time we were in the elevator, and Fenris had me pushed up against the wall. His hands were on my pectorals, and I was hoping he'd sleep on the couch with me that night so that we could feel one another on that quiet intimate level we'd grown accustomed to. Usually we talked, murmured in the dark until one of us fell asleep. It was usually me who knocked out first.

"There you two are!"

Anders' yell echoed down the hallway as we walked toward the studio's kitchen with red faces and burning lips. On the table was a white box, and he was extracting plastic bags full of dried plants with loaded gusto. He shook them before setting them down, showing off his good deed like a child who'd made their first unsupervised purchase from the candy store. He knew how much he was contributing to Fenris' grand scheme, and this sort of part in the play gave him the right to lord over the control. 

"Jimsonweed," he said and Fenris dropped his bag to jog toward the collection. "I've heard the side effects are horrifying, but it's effective. That's what matters. We might want to take  _all in moderation_  to heart while doing this."

"Salvia, dried peyote," Fenris read the labels and set them aside.

There was an assortment of mushrooms, and I picked them up, wondering if we could sell them. I wanted to try some that night, but I knew better than to ask until Anders decided what we'd need.

"I can do research on amounts, but there's already a packet that provides research on toxicity levels."

"I should be done with the chant by tomorrow," Fenris added quickly.

Fenris sat down at the table and began sifting through the substances. There was no reason for us to have them. Whoever had sent the box had a thick neck because he was putting it on the chopping block for a group of twenty-year-olds'  _research_. I wondered how much Anders had paid for everything, but then I remembered his father was a Harvard doctor. There was no reason to think about anything except legal ramifications.

"We'll tell the others when everyone's back," Anders said.

I sat down beside Fenris and pointedly slid a hand on top of his thigh.

This was the moment when someone should've reached for the cord and pulled the plug with a definitive yank. We were seated around a table covered in hallucinogenic drugs, a group of young artists too instilled in their elitism to simply bullshit their task like everyone else in the world. In truth, I knew we were quietly blaming the faculty for setting the bar too high. If we didn't do this successfully, then we'd never get out of our undergraduate careers alive. Most importantly, we wouldn't be validated artists, and we needed that validation above all else, as the rite of passage. Doing well on this project had been hammered into us since the day we stepped into the department as a unified class, and we were panicked. No one had thought to dilute the importance of academia. Instead, they'd drove us to desperation, hammered us beyond recognizable shapes. 

Flemeth and Solas were like old gods, and we were the impatient congregation aspiring to match their egos. 

We were stupid enough to think it was possible. 


End file.
